Oswiecim
by Gabrielle Lawson
Summary: The Defiant follows a Dom. ship through time to the darkest era of Earth's history. The Holocaust. Features Dr. Bashir.
1. Chapter 1

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

Winner: Best Deep Space Nine Story, .Creative Awards 1998; Honorable Mention, Fan Q 1999

This story is available in print!

It's been scrunched down to only 185 pages (scrunched, not cut!). It's bound and includes cover art by myself and illustrations by Deborah Roper. For details, see my Stories in Print page.

Disclaimer: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, and all the characters and settings thereof, are the property of Paramount Pictures. However, the situation and all new characters in this novel are completely of my own creation. Any resemblance to any persons living or deceased is unintended. You are welcome to download the story and share it with others but it must include this disclaimer. Please drop me a line at to tell me what you think.

**Acknowledgments**

I wish to thank first my translators. Dominika Trudgett, and occasionally her mother, put up with me and medical school for over a year while I wrote this story. All the Polish in this story is because of her. Christian Strauf tirelessly e-mailed German translations to me from his university in Münster, Germany. And Petr Šidlof provided much needed assistance when my knowledge of Czech grew inadequate for the project at hand. The French and English are my own and I take full responsibility for any mistakes or typos in either one. Also thanks to Tatjana Svizensky who helped me with the German when Christian was on vacation.

Secondly I must thank my test readers. Valerie Shearer has enthusiastically looked forward to every chapter I sent her. She also helped me to find errors and clarify sections of the story. Jo Burgess (as her e-mail address references her) has also read every line and valiantly searched for typos. She's also tried really hard to break me of my habit of starting sentences with "and." You'll see that she was not entirely successful. :-) Scott Morningstar has also been very helpful, and also understanding. And I thank him for not visiting and so giving me the time to write. I'm done now, Scott. You can visit again!

There have been a few other readers over the year this story has been initially completed and I don't want them to feel left out.

And lastly I thank Gene Roddenberry, for thinking up Trek in the first place; Paramount Pictures for putting it back on the air so that a younger generation could be introduced to this phenomenon that is Trek; the producers and writers of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, for putting together a wonderful show week after week; and of course, Siddig El Fadil, for without his portrayal to bring Dr. Julian Bashir to life, I would never have starting writing science fiction in the first place.

_Děkuji! Merci! Danke! Dziękuje!_

**Prologue**

"Where did they come from?" Dax exclaimed. Just then the proximity klaxon began to blare.

"Yellow alert!" Captain Sisko ordered. "Report!"

Dax took only a second to check her readings. "Klingon cruiser just decloaked. They're coming in at three quarters impulse. One thousand kilometers out. They're coming right for us."

"Hail them, Commander," Sisko said. He walked to the center of the room where he could face the main viewscreen. "Remind them, if necessary, that we're allies again. And put them on screen."

The viewscreen instantly switched and the last shimmering of the cloak as the Klingon ship came into solid view.

"Five hundred kilometers and closing," Dax reported. "No response to our hails."

"That's a Cardassian registry," Kira stated, with obvious surprise.

"Benjamin," Dax added, "they're coming in way too fast. Three hundred fifty kilometers. They're headed right for the upper pylons. Two hundred kilometers."

Something tickled inside Sisko's stomach. There was a pressure growing in the room. He could feel it, slow and insidious, like a mist rising from the floor around their ankles. The proximity klaxons seemed deafening. "Raise shields."

O'Brien shook his head. "They're too close."

"Benjamin," Dax began. He didn't like the tone she was using. She struggled with her console a bit more and then looked up. "They've increased speed."

On the screen the ship shot forward right toward the upper pylons. Sisko shouted to be heard over the klaxons. "Red alert! Target phasers."

At just that moment, the ship flew over the docking ring. It banked once to avoid hitting a pylon and began to ripple and fade, leaving nothing but a quickly dying white streak of energy in its wake. And then it was gone.

"Dax?" She would know what he wanted.

"They're gone, Benjamin," Dax answered without looking up. Her fingers flew over her console, trying to pull more information from the sensors. "I've got an ion trail. They've gone into warp."

"And they've gone cloaked," O'Brien added from the engineering station where he'd been watching the whole thing.

That tickle wasn't just a tickle anymore. It was a full blown stomachache. But Dax wasn't through yet. "I'm picking up a transporter trace. It's faint, but it's there."

Sisko's stomachache vanished as quickly as the cloaked ship had. He had a job to do. "There's an intruder on the station." He turned to his science officer and old friend. "Dax, do we have a heading?"

"Last known heading was 141 mark 312 at warp 5 and accelerating."

That was toward Earth. "Contact Starfleet Command. Send out a general alert to all ships and starbases along that heading. I don't think that was the Klingons."

**Chapter One**

Julie was enjoying the dream. It was one she'd had several times during her childhood. It had returned to her occasionally through the years when she slept, and when it did, it felt like an old friend, gone too long, but, at once, welcomed again. It was the house that she remembered most, though the reason for the dream was more the ghost. The house was old, Victorian in architecture, but mysterious and beautiful. Inside was a hidden staircase, a labyrinth in itself, for she and her sister could never seem to find the way to the balcony twice in a row.

They were in the room now, on the west side of the house. The little cabinet was there too, the one she remembered even after waking. It sat in the corner and was rounded in front. Even though she was a child whenever she visited the house, she still had to stoop down to crawl through the cabinet door. In the back was a panel. Her body blocked the light from the room behind her, though, to tell the truth, there was little light there either. It was nearing midnight after all. She had to feel around with her hands, disregarding the spider webs that would in real life have terrified her. But this was a dream, and magnificent things could happen in dreams. The panel was there and it swung open revealing a soft glow from the constantly burning candles that lined the secret staircase.

The staircase was large and seemingly inviting, but it guarded its secrets well. She and Jennie had already traversed the stairs twice--there were only nights in this dream, never the days that separated them--yet they continually opened the doors only to be shown another area of the house. It almost seemed as if the staircase moved, changing the path so that it was always an adventure to find the elusive balcony.

But they'd seen it once this dream and it left her hungry to see it again. She couldn't explain, even when she awoke and she could think more rationally, why the balcony couldn't be seen from the outside of the house. But it could only be approached via the staircase. Once there, if they arrived just before midnight, they would see her.

She was beautiful, with long, white, flowing gowns. She glowed with an incandescent whiteness, standing out starkly against the black sky. They knew her to be a ghost, but they were not afraid. She wasn't frightening, just sad. It was a deep sadness, and it beckoned them to stand perfectly still, scarcely breathing, as they watched her leap from the balcony. And it drew them back again night after night until the dream ended.

It was close to time, she knew, even if she didn't have a watch. She was too young to tell time anyway. They opened another small door, hoping that this was the one, but near-total darkness greeted them. The attic. Discouraged, but not despairing, they closed the door and continued on. The next door perhaps? No, this led to a closet, full of musty coats and scarves.

"Shh," Jennie said, putting a finger to her lips. "Listen."

Julie froze and listened. The house was silent, but then she could hear it, like a soft wind floating down the staircase. Crying. More than crying, it was grieving. They could almost feel the heart that was breaking to cause those tears. They were too late. She was gone. Still, they were compelled to find the balcony. They rushed on, following the sound.

The door was larger than the others, a proper door leading to what should have been a proper place, but the balcony itself was ghostly. Perhaps that was why it couldn't be seen from outside the house. They opened the door and stepped quickly through. The cool breeze lifted their long hair and brushed their nightgowns across their legs. It was too late. She was gone. But he was there. He stood back against the house and didn't seem to notice them at all. He was wearing black, a suit with tails. But he himself glowed with the same incandescence as the woman. The sound of the crying had stopped, but tears flowed freely from the dark places where his eyes would have been. He stared forward, toward the balcony from which she had just moments before leaped. He'd lost her again. He closed his eyes and bowed his head sadly. And then he was gone.

She was awakened by the klaxon. She sat up quickly and wasn't surprised to find a tear running down her own cheek. She'd lost the dream again, and she knew it would be a long time before she'd get to visit the house again. But she was a Starfleet officer, not a child, and a klaxon meant something was wrong. She brushed the tear away as she heard the call for security. There was an intruder on the station.

"Lights," she called as she threw her legs over the side of the bed. But there was something on the floor, something wet and squishy, like jelly. The lights obeyed and she saw the golden ooze surrounding the toes on her right foot. It stood like a column before her. Her first thought was Odo, but she knew the Chief of Security wouldn't be in her quarters. Instinctively she began to pull back, thinking she could roll over across the bed to have a more defensible position. At the same time, she knew she had to call for help.

But the thing, the shapeshifter, had latched onto her foot, and she couldn't get across the bed. Before she could open her mouth a stream of the gelatin-like liquid shot out and wrapped itself around her neck. Instantly, the liquid against her skin changed to a solid. She could feel the firmness of it, and the strength. She raised her hands to claw at the stream and break it, but the changeling was too fast. There was a cracking sound just before Julie's arms flopped down onto her lap. Her head lolled back in the shapeshifter's grip. Her eyes stared blindly at the ceiling. The stream of liquid recoiled back into the larger column, and Julie's body fell back across the bed.

* * *

There was a silence on the station. It had never seemed this silent before, not even at night. There was always something going on, a hum of activity somewhere. But this was different. Sisko was surprised by how calm everyone seemed after the intruder alert sounded. They had rehearsed this before, and while none of those rehearsals had ever turned out well, everyone was playing his or her part as if they had vanquished the enemy every time.

Odo had responded almost instantly to confirm the alert. His security teams were ready. Once the transport location was ascertained they had been sent on their way. Sisko could watch the progress from Ops. But he didn't want to watch. He felt uneasy just standing still. What he really wanted to do was jump into the _Defiant_ and head out after that ship. But his duty was to take care of the station. There were other ships to chase after the Klingon transport. He hoped.

"Sisko to Bashir," he barked quickly.

"Bashir here." The doctor had seemed just as quick to answer.

"Doctor," Sisko began, "are your teams ready to screen the station?"

"Yes, sir," Bashir replied. "I've already blood-screened all of them." Despite the gravity of the situation, his smooth English accent seemed again to carry the lightness he had before his stay with the Jem'Hadar. "And they've screened me," he added. Sisko could almost see the doctor's grin when he said it. "I'm sending them out right now."

So far, the play was working perfectly. He didn't need to watch the consoles and computer readouts in Ops. He could see it all in his mind. Bashir's people would blood-screen everyone they came in contact with. Even though some of the changelings had found a way to fool the test, blood screenings were still the most reliable way known to detect a shapeshifter that had been impersonating a humanoid. The medical teams were joining up with the security teams. But there weren't really enough of them to go around. The station's inhabitants were prepared for that as well. On each deck one crewman on each shift was ready with the necessary equipment to begin blood screenings. Ensign LeFett was already at work in Ops.

In theory, all of their precautions should flush out the shapeshifter fairly easily, leaving him no place to stand. But they had run drills for this many times with Odo as their target. And he'd always managed to get away. This time it was for real. It needed to work.

"Sir," Worf protested, or at least his tone implied that he was about to protest, "the _Venture_ and _Lakota_ are four and six days out respectively. And the _Rotarron_'s engines are still offline for repairs. The _Defiant_ is still the closest vessel with the ability to give chase to the enemy."

A Klingon ship with Cardassian registry. Logical or not, every fiber of Sisko's being suspected that ship carried the Founders themselves. But at least, this meant he didn't have to just stand there watching the action around him. He could act.

O'Brien had left Ops as soon as the ship vanished and the red alert was sounded. The _Defiant_ would be prepared for launch by the time Sisko and his officers were aboard.

"Major, Dax, Mr. Worf," Sisko ordered, "you're with me." Each of them nodded in turn and then headed for the turbolift. Ensign LeFett tested them as they did. Kira paused at the step though. She was waiting for him. No one was to go anywhere without a partner. It was part of the drill. Sisko nodded to her, holding up a finger. There were still things to do.

The Klingon ship would have quite a head start. Each second let them get farther ahead. They'd be hard enough to find as it was. But he still had a few calls to make. And he wanted to talk to Jake. He didn't know what he'd say to Jake, really. He couldn't take him with them, but he hated to leave him here--again--with an intruder, most likely a shapeshifter, on board. But there was no time for that. He had more people to think about than his own son. It was times like this that being captain was a weight perhaps too heavy.

He touched his comm badge. "Sisko to Bashir."

"Yes, Captain." Bashir sounded a bit out of breath.

"We're going after them, Doctor. Meet us aboard the _Defiant_."

"Understood. Bashir out."

"Sisko to Odo." This would be his last call.

"I'm a bit busy, Captain," Odo acknowledged impatiently.

"I realize that, Constable." Sisko didn't bother getting annoyed at Odo's tone. It was just Odo. "Keep it up. I'm leaving the station in your hands, Odo. Take care of it." _And take care of my son_, he wanted to say.

"It'll still be here when you get back," Odo's rough voice responded.

While Odo's words carried a cynical tone, Sisko had worked with him long enough to know that the Constable would take this responsibility very seriously. LeFett walked over and drew blood from his arm. "I'm counting on it," he said. "Sisko out."

Kira stepped onto the turbolift and Sisko joined her. The turbolift lowered into the floor and they began the trip to the _Defiant_.

* * *

"Take care of things while I'm gone," Doctor Bashir told his nurse. Jabara had been with him from the beginning here on the station. She was a good nurse, and he knew he could trust her with the blood screenings and everything else during this emergency. He turned to the two others with them. "You're all a threesome now. Partners. Don't lose sight of each other."

He waited there at the airlock door for their assurance. "Good hunting, Doctor," one of the Bajoran med-techs said.

"You, too," Bashir said. He was joined at the door by a Starfleet nurse also waiting to board the _Defiant_. She would be Bashir's new partner in place of Jabara who would remain on the station. Bashir turned back to his people. "Now get back to work." He added a slight smile to show his confidence in them.

They nodded and turned to leave, rushing back down the corridor to pick up where they'd left off. He turned with the nurse and pressed his palm onto the scanner. The scanner verified his identity, and he was allowed to pass through the airlock door. The nurse did the same.

"I was kind of hoping," the nurse said as they waited their turn to be blood-screened, "that we could just stick to drills." Two Security officers stood at either side of the airlock door screening everyone who came aboard. Two others stood just beyond them with phaser rifles in hand. A human woman in the gold-trimmed uniform of Security brushed her long brown hair from her right shoulder so that the officers could take blood from her arm. When they were satisfied, she walked briskly down the corridor trying to tie her hair up as she went.

"I know what you mean," Bashir agreed. They'd been running these drills for over three years. That was the first time a shapeshifter had infiltrated the crew of the _Defiant_. He'd even replaced Bashir himself, not once, but twice, the second time, locking him up in the brig so no one would notice. Bashir still hadn't figured out why the shapeshifter hadn't just killed him then, or for that matter, why they had left him alive in the Jem'Hadar prison for over a month. He didn't relish the idea that another was loose on the station, or perhaps the _Defiant_.

"Good to see you, Doctor," the Security officer greeted him as he placed the instrument to Bashir's arm. He held up the vial of blood he'd drawn and watched for a change. When there wasn't one, he said, "They're all yours."

"Thank you," Bashir replied. "You were the first on board?"

"Yes, sir," the officer reported. "Eighteen crewmen have checked in and all of them checked out as being who they appeared to be. My partner included."

"Mine, too," the other chimed in from across the corridor. Bashir looked to the ones with the rifles. They nodded their agreement as well.

"Fine," Bashir decided. "The two of you are dismissed. See to your duties. We'll take over here." The two security officers packed their equipment back into the wall and set off down the corridor. The other two stayed ready with their rifles for the first person who didn't pass the blood screening. The nurse and Bashir took up their positions on the ship's side of the airlock.

Other crewmembers began streaming on board. Each of them stopped to be blood screened. For some it was their second test, as it had been for the doctor. They might have been stopped on their way to the docking ring and screened before they could make it to the ship. But they all knew the necessity of it. They had to be sure that no shapeshifter made it onboard the _Defiant_ in the guise of one of her crewmembers. In just a few minutes, nearly her whole complement was on the ship. Dax and Worf showed up at the airlock and stopped to be tested as well.

"Julian, I'm beginning to feel like a blood bank," Dax teased.

"And we thank you for your contribution, Jadzia," Bashir replied in kind.

"See you on the bridge, Julian," she said when Bashir dropped her vial into the bag beside him on the floor. "And do try to stay out of the brig this time." Worf waited for her, glaring impatiently and doing all but rolling his eyes.

"Only if you promise to stay off the sedatives," he quipped. She'd been drugged by his shapeshifter replacement while he was locked in the brig. He didn't know why the changeling had let her live either. He was glad he had though.

"You have my word." She smiled and headed toward the turbolift with Worf right on her heels.

A few more crewmembers came on board, engineers and security mostly. Sisko and Kira arrived a few seconds later. "You're the last," Bashir said as he tested the captain.

"Everyone checks out?" Kira asked. The nurse was just holding up the vial of her blood.

"Yes, Ensigns Cronenberg and Martinelli checked the first eighteen, as well as Nurse Baines and myself. We've done everyone else."

"Alright, then," the captain said, straightening his uniform, "seal that airlock. We've got a ship to catch."

"Aye, sir." The two security officers shouldered their weapons and strode forward to secure the airlock door. Sisko stepped past them and entered the turbolift with Major Kira.

"Stow your gear and come to the bridge, Doctor," he added before the doors closed.

Julian had been putting his instruments away. He looked up when Sisko addressed him and nodded. He lifted the bag of vials from the floor and waited for the nurse to join him.

* * *

The _Defiant_ was small compared to most starships, but she more than lived up to her name. Her Federation design afforded her a cleanliness, a brightness, but her countenance whispered defiance, a sturdiness that wouldn't be easily shaken. She'd stood up to ships several times her size and stood her ground even when outnumbered. She was sleek and quick. She could maneuver in and out of places the larger ships could not. And her ablative armor and weapons gave her a toughness to match her name.

And just in case all that wasn't good enough, she was equipped with a cloaking device, courtesy of the Romulans. They had agreed to the use of the cloak against the common threat of the Dominion. By treaty, the cloak was not to be used in the Alpha Quadrant, but there had been occasions when that rule had had to be bent. And now that there was a war on, such details were often left alone.

The cloak allowed for secrecy. To sensors and the naked eye, a cloaked ship was invisible, just as the Klingon vessel was when it slipped into warp. But it wasn't perfect. And this was what the crew of the _Defiant_ was counting on. A cloaked ship could be tracked if you knew what to look for.

Dax knew what to look for. "I picked up an ion trail, just before they warped," she said as she slipped into her seat at the helm. "We should be able to catch them."

"Good." Sisko's eyes were on the main viewscreen. The huge gray mass of the station stood before them. He remembered the first time he'd seen it. He hadn't wanted to come. The sight of it hadn't helped. It was a broken, old, Cardassian monstrosity, nearly falling apart at the seams, sabotaged by her previous inhabitants. But in the five years he'd lived there, it had changed. It was a vibrant place, full of life, booming businesses, familiar faces. And he had changed. He'd found his life again. He'd found his home.

He knew that even more when he'd been forced to leave it. It was a sacrifice that had to be taken. But it had been a hard step, leaving the Bajorans behind with the Cardassian and Dominion forces who had taken it. It had felt good to take it back. And it had still felt very much like home.

But a man can have more than one home. And the Klingon cruiser was a threat to the other one, Earth. "Disengage docking clamps," he ordered. Fingers flew to obey. "Aft thrusters at one quarter impulse."

The ship began to move, and, small though she was, Benjamin Sisko could feel her power as she pulled away from the hulking station. "Dax," he added, "keep scanning that ion trail. Set course to follow. Maximum warp. Just don't lose them."

"Aye, sir," the Trill answered and the _Defiant_ swung wide away from the station. There was a brief hesitation and then she jumped into warp, sending the stars streaking past the main viewer.

* * *

Lieutenant Whaley looked down at her right arm impassively. It was beginning to turn blue. She flexed the fingers. It didn't help. It was time.

"We're partners," someone said from behind her. She resisted the urge to turn and attack. It was her partner, a security officer like herself. "We've got deck five for starters. You ready to move?" He stood waiting for her, his phaser rifle slung over his shoulders. She searched her memory. Barker was his name. They were supposed to be friends.

"In a minute," she replied. She smiled what she hoped was a sheepish smile. "I need to use the head."

Barker looked a little disapproving. But there wasn't much use arguing with nature. He also looked worried. And Whaley understood that. "Make it quick," was all he said.

But she was surprised when he followed her to the door.

"If I have to let you out of my sight, I'm gonna check the room first." He lifted his phaser rifle and checked its setting. "Don't want a shapeshifter to replace you while I'm not looking," he quipped.

Whaley swallowed a moment of panic. She forced a smile, "Right," she said and stepped out of the way. Barker pressed the trigger, and a bolt of light leapt from the rifle and hit the ceiling where it spread to the walls and slipped to the floor. Nothing was damaged and nothing moved.

"Looks alright to me," Whaley remarked and pushed past the man. "Now if I could just have a little privacy."

"I'll be right outside the door. I'll talk the entire time. Then if you can't see me, you can at least hear me."

Whaley thought he seemed a bit too overcautious. But then he was probably just following orders. "What will you talk about?" she asked.

"I'll recite the alphabet, if I have to. Hey, you like poetry, don't you?"

Whaley let the door close on him and listened as he began the first poem. She looked in the small mirror. The reflection was perfect. She hadn't missed a single detail. She had put her hair up now in the proper fashion. She scanned the walls. The _Defiant_ was a practical ship, without all the amenities that even that Cardassian station seemed willing to provide. The head contained only the basics. She decided she was lucky to even have a mirror. There were no cabinets, no large waste reclamators, just the toilet facilities and a sink for washing. Time was wasting. It would have to be enough.

Whaley lifted her arm again and felt the hand with her left. Flesh. Solid flesh. It was cold and lifeless. How could it be otherwise? She released it and gripped the arm above the elbow. Then slowly she slipped the arm from her shoulder. As she did another grew in its place, a replica of the first, but clear, liquid gold in color. As the last thread of her real substance pulled itself from the center of the bone, it reformed into a hand with all the color and solidity of the severed limb she'd removed.

* * *

Julian Bashir and the nurse stepped out of turbolift just as the ship went into warp. O'Brien arrived just after him with an accompanying security officer. No one went anywhere without a partner. The Founders were shapeshifters. And, while Odo hadn't mastered the ability to accurately impersonate a humanoid, the Founders had proven very adept at it. But in order to make it work, they had to take away the original person. They couldn't to do that if someone was always watching.

"It looks," Sisko began after a glance around the bridge, "like we could be out here awhile. How's the _Defiant_, Chief?"

"Like she was just commissioned yesterday, Captain," O'Brien replied, taking his seat at the Engineering station. "We've got full power."

"Shields?" Sisko asked.

"One hundred percent."

"Weapons?" There was a hard set to Sisko's face when he asked that question.

Bashir felt it, too. They all did. Even just last year, he could say that he would never welcome war. None of them could. Not even Kira. But since the threat had been brought to them, they would fight, if that was what was it took to defend their lives, their freedom, and their homes. It didn't matter that it was Earth and not everyone was from Earth. They knew that if the Founders succeeded in capturing one planet, they'd go on to another and another. They had already proven that. Everything the Federation had worked and fought for--peace, cooperation, freedom, and partnership among so many of the worlds in this quadrant of the galaxy--was in danger.

"We're fully stocked on torpedoes, photon _and_ quantum. And phasers are online as well," O'Brien answered evenly.

"According to the blood screenings, there are no shapeshifters among the crew." Sisko looked to Bashir for confirmation. Bashir nodded and Sisko continued, "Security is combing the ship as well with phasers. If there's one here, we should find him." He turned to the helm. "How are we doing on your end, Old Man?"

"I've still got them, Benjamin." Dax's eyes flitted back and forth from her console to the main viewer. The stars out there shot past the ship at such speeds that they were no longer distinct points in space but long streaks of light. "They've changed course twice already, but they're still heading deep into Federation space."

"Earth?"

Dax turned back to look at him. "I think so, Benjamin."

"What we have to decide now is what we're going to do when we catch them." Sisko steepled his fingers in thought.

"We destroy them." That was Worf.

Sisko didn't agree or disagree. He just sat there thinking for a moment.

Normally, Bashir would protest immediately. Starfleet personnel did not just decide to destroy another ship. Firing weapons was supposed to be the last choice. But that was before the war. And this time, he really felt at a loss. The Founders, if it was really them--and there was no reason to doubt that it was--wouldn't just be talked out of whatever they were up to. And whatever they were up to wasn't any good for the Federation. Besides, he'd had more than one occasion to dislike the Dominion.

"I think," Sisko began again, "we need to be more specific."

"We need to know why they're here," Bashir ventured.

"They're here," Worf said impatiently, as if he were talking to a stupid child, "to take over the Alpha Quadrant."

"With just one ship?" Sisko's voice was still calm. "The doctor's right. What are they here for?"

"Maybe they're trying a more forthright approach," O'Brien suggested. "Scaring us into killing ourselves didn't seem to work."

"Possible," Kira conceded, "but why the Klingon ship? Why not one of there own? And why wouldn't they try somewhere else? I mean, Earth is ready for something like this."

"Not exactly," Dax answered. "This is still a cloaked vessel. Cloaks wouldn't be much good if everyone could still see you. Starfleet Command will be scanning every inch of space within range, but they still might miss this one. We could lose it."

"Let's not," Sisko interjected. "If it is an outright attack, why is it only one ship? Where are the Jem'Hadar?"

"It's got to be something deeper than that," Bashir thought out loud. He had a bad feeling about it, truth be told. He didn't think it was an attack or invasion. _That_ Earth could deal with. One ship against Earth's defenses? They wouldn't have a chance. The Founders didn't seem to do things straight out, not unless they had a fleet of Jem'Hadar to back them up. The Founders were more secretive. They snuck in and showed up where you least expected it--if they showed up at all.

"Well," Sisko turned back to the main viewscreen, "we've got a week before they reach Earth. That gives us awhile to figure it out."

* * *

Julian Bashir sat at the main console in the cramped sickbay aboard the _Defiant_. Each blood sample had to be logged before they were destroyed. There wasn't much else to do with them. Forty-seven of those little vials just took up too much space, and they were hardly needed once the tests were over. But since the samples had been taken anyway, Bashir had decided to give them each a quick scan for known diseases. Two of them so far scanned positive for minor problems, anemia and low blood sugar. They could be easily treated. He set them aside and called for the crewmen to come in for a more thorough exam as soon as they had a moment.

Every few seconds he'd check the reflection of his nurse in the console's display. He didn't want to take any chances until they were sure there were no shapeshifters on board the ship. It had been three hours since they left the station. The security teams were being thorough.

"Attention all hands," Sisko's voice echoed through the ship. "All security teams have reported in. No intruders have been found aboard this vessel."

Julian involuntarily breathed a sigh of relief. Something had been gnawing at his stomach since they left the station. He was sure now that it must have been the thought of carrying a shapeshifter away with them. _Better that than leaving one on the station,_ he chided himself. There were fewer people to endanger aboard this ship, and none of them were civilians. And there was less area to search. It had taken many more hours in their drills aboard the station to actually sweep every inch of it with phaser bursts. But that knot in his stomach still hadn't gone away.

"It's about time," Nurse Baines said aloud. "All that tends to make me paranoid. I mean, shapeshifters can be absolutely anything. Do we even know for sure that phasers work on them?"

"Yes, they work," Bashir answered, placing another vial under the scanner. "Odo tested them out."

She didn't seem convinced. "But what if we had to kill one? It would be hard to just hold one prisoner, you know. Has anyone ever killed one of them?"

"I did." The scan was normal. Ensign Stehlikova appeared to be in perfect health.

"_You_ did?"

Bashir turned to face his nurse and almost laughed at her expression. Her head was slightly bowed but she was looking up at him from under her eyebrows. All she needed were a pair of old spectacles sitting at the end of her nose. But really, it wasn't a laughing matter. "Don't you have a Hippocratic Oath to think about?" she asked.

"Believe me, it was self defense." Bashir felt the heat building up in his face. "Odo was going to kill me anyway. There was an explosion, and the opportunity just presented itself."

Now she was the one to nearly laugh. "Odo? If you killed Odo, who's in charge of the station?"

"Not that Odo," Bashir said, the frustration was now becoming obvious. "Look, it was a mirror universe. Odo wasn't Security Chief there. He was an overseer, and the slaves were humans. It's a very different place."

"Mirror universe?" she asked, still doubtful, but now she was patronizing a bit as well. "Are you making all this up to kill time?"

"You can ask Major Kira, if you don't believe me. She was there, too."

"Well, of _course_, she was," the nurse teased. "If Odo was there, she'd have to be. Was Captain Sisko there, too?"

"No, I mean yes," Bashir answered, still just a bit flustered, though he realized she was just playing with him. "But that's not it at all. _Our_ Major Kira was there, with me. _Their_ Kira was worse than Odo."

The door opened and the conversation was dropped. Lieutenant Tirn, stepped inside and stood at attention. "You wanted to see me, sir?" she snapped.

"You can stand at ease," Bashir said, directing the young woman to a biobed. "Your blood sample shows that you're a bit anemic. It's nothing dangerous at this point but still something we should take care of."

"And me, Doctor?"

Bashir turned and saw another crewman waiting by the door. "Low blood sugar. Have a seat and I'll be right with you in a moment."

* * *

Lieutenant Whaley heard the chirp beside her. Actually, she didn't so much hear it as sense its vibrations. After all she had no ears. Someone was at her door. Forming a mouth and the vocal cords necessary to answer in Whaley's voice, she lifted the device with a jelly-like appendage and spoke into it. "Who is it?"

"It's me, Barker," came the reply, slightly muffled by the door itself. "I was wondering if you wanted something to eat. Sopok, Romero, Armand, and I were heading down to the mess for lunch."

Solids. They had to put foreign objects into their bodies to sustain themselves. It was really rather revolting. "Well, that sounds great," she said, "but I already ate, and I'm trying to catch up on some reading. I have a friend who writes novels, and I promised her I'd read her latest."

"Well, maybe we can get together later, then." He didn't sound too hopeful.

_Perhaps because he thinks we are talking through a door,_ she decided. He had no way of knowing that she was no where near her quarters. She wasn't even on that deck. But she didn't want him to become suspicious. "Maybe," she replied cheerfully.

The device she held stopped pulsing so she knew he'd gone away. She pulled back the appendage and let the mouth drop back into her natural state. Now she could continue her work.

* * *

One of the blood samples had him stumped. Dr. Julian Bashir had graduated second in his class and had proven himself to be not only a competent doctor, but an excellent one. It didn't hurt that his IQ had been enhanced at the age of six along with the rest of him. So, naturally, it bothered him when he couldn't quite catch what was wrong with the sample.

It was dinner time and O'Brien and Dax were chatting about something. Bashir tried to pay attention but for some reason, that one sample kept springing back to his mind. It had belonged to a human female, Lieutenant Julie Whaley. And at first glance it scanned as normal, healthy blood. But it just wasn't as oxygen-rich as the others. It appeared to be a bit more congealed as well, by about point-three percent. Bringing up Lieutenant Whaley's medical records on the computer, he found that she was asthmatic. This might have accounted for the lesser amounts of oxygen. The congealing was a little more difficult. Of course, it was a negligible difference from the other samples and could have been a problem of not getting the vial to fit securely into the instrument before drawing the blood. It didn't seem to be anything to worry about.

So he thought he'd solved it. And yet he couldn't get it off his mind.

"Right, Julian?"

"Huh? What?" Bashir stammered, lifting his eyes from his plate to see who had spoken.

"I said," Dax began, a teasing gleam in her eye, "'Julian's ignoring us. Right, Julian?'"

"Oh. I'm sorry." Now he felt terrible. He hadn't meant to ignore his friends. It appeared that he hadn't heard anything they'd said. "I didn't mean to. I was just thinking. . . ."

"Don't worry about it, Julian." Chief O'Brien seemed to sense his friend's guilt. "It's not like we were discussing the fate of the universe. Well, actually we were."

Jadzia ignored O'Brien's comment and directed her attention to Julian. "What were you thinking about that was so much more interesting than us?"

Julian forgot his faux pas immediately at the prospect of sharing his dilemma. "I can't stop thinking about one of the samples we took this morning."

"Samples?" O'Brien's eyebrows were raised and his mouth just slightly turned. "You aren't going to talk about blood at the dinner table, are you, Julian?"

Julian glanced down at the Irishman's plate. "What does it matter? You're finished eating."

Jadzia tried to reign them both back in to the subject at hand. "What about the samples, Julian?"

"Well, I figured as long as I had them, I should run some tests. I found a few problems. Low blood sugar. That sort of thing. Nothing major. But there was one vial that just didn't seem right."

"Anything wrong with mine, Doctor?" a deep voice floated its way down into the conversation.

Julian looked up to see the dark face of the ship's commander. Worf stood just behind him. "No, Captain," he answered. "Your blood was quite healthy. Would you care to join us?"

Sisko shook his head, but he was smiling. "Not if the topic of conversation is 'blood.' I'm afraid that just might ruin my appetite."

"What's wrong with blood?" Worf asked, dropping down into the empty chair.

"I'm with you, Captain." O'Brien stood up. "If you'll all excuse me."

Jadzia just smiled and shook her head. "Well, I guess we know who the 'real' men--and women--are."

"Watch it, Old Man," Sisko threw back from where he'd sat down. But it only made her laugh.

"Good ears," Bashir commented.

Dax took a deep breath and then turned to Bashir, her composure regained. "Now, Julian, what was it you were saying about the sample?"

"Well, I'm not sure really. I mean it was just different. It had less oxygen than the others and had congealed just slightly. The medical history showed a minor case of asthma, so if the subject had had an attack prior to the screening, that might show up. And there are a lot of reasons for it to congeal. All it needs is just a little bit of exposure to air for the blood to begin to dry out."

"So what's the problem?"

"There isn't one," Bashir admitted. "But I just can't stop thinking that there should be."

* * *

Whaley was annoyed. The doctor was fouling up her plans. But she was more annoyed at herself. She'd studied his psychographic profile, just as she studied the profiles of every member of the bridge crew. She should have known that the doctor would not just throw out the samples. He would study them, run tests, make sure that everyone was healthy. She should have known that.

But she wouldn't have known if Novak hadn't told her that he'd been called to sickbay because of low blood sugar. Now she would likely fall behind schedule.

Whaley waited for the nurse to leave the room and then silently poured herself to the floor. Once she was on the floor, she formed herself again into the guise of the human woman. All except for the feet. She kept them soft, not quite solid, so they'd make no sound when she walked across the room.

The vials were all lined up in five rows on one counter. She found the information she needed on a PADD just beside them. Scanning the information quickly, she looked for Whaley's name to find which vial was hers. She knew she didn't have much time. That doctor took his job too seriously and would probably return to sickbay after dinner.

"Can I help you?"

Whaley jumped. Straining against her instincts, she forced herself to turn as a human would. The nurse was standing behind her, holding a box and a few instruments in her hands. Whaley's mind raced to find an excuse to cover her real intentions.

"I, uh, I wasn't feeling very well," she said finally and put her hand to where her stomach would have been. "No one was here when I came in. I was just looking around."

"I'm sorry," the nurse said. "I hadn't heard you call out. Why don't you have a seat there on the biobed." She indicated the bed with a tilt of her head as her hands were full. "I'll run a preliminary scan, and then we'll call the doctor."

The nurse was walking toward her. She looked like she was going to set the box down on the counter. Whaley just smiled as if she hadn't understood. At least that's what she would have appeared to be doing on the side the nurse was facing. Behind her back, Whaley was melting. Something like a snake formed from her back and opened a drawer. Whaley's own body shielded her actions from the busy nurse. Inside the drawer was a hypospray and several different vials of drugs. There was a slight hesitation as the appendage tried to determine which one was appropriate.

The nurse looked up and realized that Whaley was still standing beside her. Putting the last of the instruments away, she straightened and then reached an arm out to touch Whaley's shoulder. "Right this way." And then she froze.

Whaley's eyes were cold and lifeless staring straight into the nurse's. In an instant they came to life again, and before the nurse could react, Whaley reached up with one hand to cup her mouth closed. The other held her by the neck so that she couldn't pull away.

The nurse's eyes widened in terror, but she couldn't cry out. Her voice was muffled by the hand that covered her mouth. She clawed at the arms that held her and tried to kick her attacker.

Whaley forced her body to become solid, more so than the human's were. The nurse's fingers met steel rather than flesh. Again the eyes of her attacker went blank as Whaley's focus returned to what was behind her. She had to have just the right thing. She couldn't kill the nurse as she'd done to the woman whose appearance she had taken on. The body was too big to destroy without leaving traces behind, and she couldn't risk being discovered just yet. Otherwise she wouldn't have bothered with coming to sickbay at all.

Then she had it. Behind her, the appendage placed the vial into the end of the hypospray and pulled itself back into Lieutenant Whaley's body. Coming out again the other side, the appendage reformed from Whaley's stomach and reached out toward the struggling nurse's neck. The nurse, for her part, made things easier. She froze in utter terror. Whaley pressed the hypospray to her neck and let her sink to the floor.

Standing over the unconscious nurse, Whaley cursed. "More complications," she said. She knelt down to be closer to the nurse's face. Whaley's own features began to slowly fade only to be replaced by those of the nurse on the floor. Getting the eyes right was easy. The shapeshifter had gotten quite a good view of them as she held the nurse. All there was left was a simple change in uniform color . . . and getting rid of the nurse.

* * *

Doctor Bashir returned to sickbay and wondered why the lights had been turned down. But then, it was late and there were no patients to worry about. Bashir, himself, was only stopping by to check on things before he returned to his quarters for the night. He just couldn't seem to go to sleep without making a final check on the Infirmary, or in this case, the sickbay.

Nurse Hausmann looked up and smiled as he entered. "Shouldn't you be in bed by now?" she asked.

"Of course I should," Bashir replied coming to stand beside her. She was sitting at the diagnostics console reviewing the crew's medical records by the looks of it. She was newer than most of the _Defiant_'s crew, so Bashir was glad to see she was taking the opportunity to get to know the needs of the crew. Of course, there were some records she did not have clearance for, things that had to be cleared with him, but at the moment, this was not the case. "I just wanted to make sure that everything was fine here. Close up shop, so to speak."

He turned and looked around the room. It was small, even for a ship this size. There were only three biobeds and all the diagnostic equipment was packed around the walls so tightly that there seemed little room for anything else. He had overhauled it a bit though, made it a little more functional, since their first meeting with the Dominion's Founders nearly three years before.

Everything seemed to be in order. He stepped into the next room and gave everything there a careful scan as well. Nothing seemed amiss. Everything was put in its place. No work lying about.

"Well," he said, returning to the main room, "you seem to have things well under control."

"Yes, Doctor," the nurse said. She got out of the chair and walked with him to the door.

_No work lying about._ It was a strange thought to have, but it stuck with him and he just couldn't step out the door.

"Is there something wrong, Doctor?" Hausmann asked, her brow furrowed in concern.

Bashir didn't answer. Instead he turned quickly back into the room and walked over to the counter where he'd been working before his shift ended. No work was lying about. The counter was empty.

"Nurse?"

"Yes, Doctor?" Hausmann had come to the counter, too, and was standing directly behind him.

He looked up at the nurse. "Where are the blood samples that were taken this morning?"

"I disposed of them like you asked," she answered evenly.

Bashir stood up straighter and looked at the prim woman in front of him. He stood nearly a head taller than she did, and she had to look up to meet his gaze. "I asked you," he began firmly, "_not_ to dispose of them. I asked you to not to touch them, to leave them as they were until tomorrow."

Nurse Hausmann lowered her eyes to the ground. She looked stricken, and Bashir almost regretted his harshness. He pushed that thought away. He hadn't been harsh, besides, when it came to medicine, he wanted his orders carried out exactly. He never asked for anything unreasonable, and he tried never to be unkind. But he also relied on his staff. There were there to assist him, to be extensions of himself at times. But in the end, everything that happened in this room was his responsibility. He didn't take it lightly.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," the nurse apologized. "I must have misunderstood. I thought you'd finished with them earlier this evening. They'd all been logged. I checked."

"Yes, but I still had some research to do on one of them."

Hausmann seemed sincerely sorry. "If I could get them back, I would. Maybe we could replicate another sample from the scans." She returned to the console and began to call up the information.

"No, that won't help." Bashir stood with his arms crossed there in the middle of the room and tried to decide what to do. He tried to tell himself that it really wasn't important. There was really nothing too far out of the ordinary with Whaley's sample.

"We could call that crewman in for another sample."

"Why?" Bashir mumbled.

"Excuse me?"

"Why?" he asked a little louder. "She'll want to know why we're taking more of her blood. Shall I tell her that I had a funny feeling about her previous sample? It's hardly a good enough excuse."

Hausmann opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again.

Bashir sighed and then walked over to her. "Nurse Hausmann, there's really nothing to be done about this now. But I expect my orders to carried out, _especially_ when I'm off duty. I haven't had any complaints yet about being a sadistic slave-monger, so I don't believe I'm out of order here. People's lives often depend on what happens in this room. If I can't trust my staff to carry out my orders, there could be a lot more serious consequences in the future. If you don't understand those orders, you should ask me to clarify them. If you didn't hear them properly, you should ask me to speak up. I'd rather repeat them ten times than have my work thrown out before I am done."

"It won't happen again, Doctor." She still couldn't look up at him. "I give you my word."

"Good." He'd have to leave it at that for now. It really wasn't a major problem this time, and it wouldn't be fair to be too harsh. The point was made. He hoped it was enough. "Goodnight."

Nurse Hausmann watched him leave and then straightened, staring at the door as it closed. The corners of her lips turned up in the slightest hint of a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Two**

Barker was beginning to worry. Whaley and he had become good friends since being assigned to the _Defiant_. They had often had dinner together and were even starting to become 'involved.' At least he'd thought they were. But she'd been acting strangely these last few days, ever since they left Deep Space Nine.

Maybe it was just the shapeshifter scare. Maybe it had her a bit jumpy. But he dismissed the thought. When Ambassador Krajensky had been replaced by a shapeshifter and had infiltrated the ship, she hadn't acted like this. She'd proven herself to be a tough security officer.

Something was different now, and he wasn't quite sure what that was. He'd only seen her during their shifts. When she was off-duty, she just disappeared. He'd tried to find her at her quarters, but she wasn't in. He tried to catch her in the mess hall for lunch or dinner, but she was never there. Whenever he asked where she'd been keeping herself, she'd just say that she was reading that novel her friend wrote.

Now that he thought about it, he didn't remember her ever mentioning a writer friend.

_Come on, Stan_, he chided himself. _Don't you think you're being just a little bit paranoid? _

"Barker! Wait up!"

Barker turned when he heard the familiar voice.

"I'm sorry I missed breakfast," Whaley said. She jogged a few steps to catch up to him.

"I'm beginning to wonder if you even eat anymore," Barker quipped. He was trying to sound nonchalant. But when he looked over at her, her eyebrows were drawn down in confusion.

"I know," she apologized, looking away. "And I'll make it up to you as soon as I finish this book. It's really very intense. I hate to put it down and come on duty. And I promised I'd have it finished by the end of the month. Sue gave it to me two weeks ago, and I've been putting it off."

Barker held up a hand to stop her. "Okay, okay. But when you're finished...."

Now it was Whaley who stopped him. She leaned up close so she could reach his ear. "I'll make it worth the wait," she whispered.

Barker felt her light touch on his shoulder, but when he turned toward her, she was already gone, heading toward her post. Barker unzipped the collar of his uniform a few more inches. It had suddenly grown warmer. He hoped his face wasn't red. Armand hadn't stopped teasing him since last time.

* * *

Captain Sisko sat quietly in his chair in the center of the bridge and stared at the main viewscreen. But he didn't see the stars flying past in thin ribbons of light. He was thinking. He worried that they hadn't heard anything from the station yet. He knew that something or someone had beamed down to the station before the Klingon ship sped off. And he knew that there were no intruders, shapeshifters or otherwise, on the _Defiant_. So the something or someone had to have been left behind. It was still on the station.

Odo was a good security officer. The best. And it wasn't that Sisko didn't trust him. He just felt like he should be there. He wanted to know for sure that the intruder was captured, that it wasn't still running loose on the station, threatening its residents, including his son.

"Major, any word from the Constable yet?" He knew he shouldn't have asked. He'd asked too many times already.

"No, sir," Kira answered. She turned in her seat and lowered her voice. She didn't want the whole bridge crew to hear. "I'm sure Odo's caught it by now."

Sisko matched her volume. "I'm sure, too. I just wish he'd call to tell me so." He sighed and tried to put it out of his mind. His immediate concern was catching that ship. "Any change, Old Man?" he asked. His voice sounded a bit weary. They'd been chasing the ship for four days now.

"The heading's basically the same, Benjamin," Dax responded from the helm. "I'm still on them."

Sisko knew what she meant by 'basically.' The ship they were pursuing had changed course on a regular basis, but in the end, it always came back to the same heading: Earth.

Sisko turned to Kira at the communications console. "Open a channel to Starfleet Command."

Kira nodded and then turned to her station. A second later she responded, "Channel open."

"On screen." Sisko faced forward again and looked past Dax to the main viewscreen. The stars that flew by in long white streaks winked out. In their place was a well lit room with large windows. A man looked up from his desk.

"Captain?"

Sisko didn't quite know where to start. Earth had had an invasion scare recently and things had snowballed to a panicked state. Sisko didn't want that to happen again. A state of war was bad enough. "Admiral, I presume you know about the Klingon vessel we are pursuing."

The admiral nodded. "Yes, we received your communique three days ago. Have you caught them?"

Sisko straightened. "No, sir. But we are still in pursuit."

"The _Lakota_ and the _Venture_ have been diverted as well. They'll be trying to intercept the ship. The Klingons have reported that ship missing, Captain. And with a Cardassian registry, I think it's safe to assume it's hostile." The admiral wasted no time with small talk.

Sisko tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment, but he continued. "The ship, sir, is headed toward Earth."

The admiral took a deep breath, but he didn't speak right away. He dropped his head slightly and stared intently at his desk. "We'll have our defenses ready," he finally said.

Sisko nodded without breaking eye contact. His face was grim.

The admiral still looked indecisive. "It's just the one ship?"

"Yes, sir."

That seemed to relieve him just a little. "Don't lose it. Keep us informed of its whereabouts so we can track it."

"Of course, sir." Sisko nodded and then said, "Admiral, have you received any word from Deep Space Nine?"

The admiral's face hardened. _Bad news_, Sisko thought. "Not since you left. We're trying to reach them. Todman out."

Sisko didn't like it. The station had lost contact with Starfleet Command and the _Defiant_. Something was wrong there.

* * *

Whaley clenched her jaw tight and looked at the chronometer again. One more hour. She closed her eyes and silently willed herself solid. It was getting harder every day. Someone stepped around the corner, and she quickly opened her eyes and stood up straight.

It was the doctor's fault, she decided, or her own. She thought she'd taken care of the problem by destroying the blood samples. But being seen by the nurse had complicated things. Now she had to be Whaley in the morning and then take the nurse's shift at night. She was having to adjust her regenerative cycle. She'd been prepared to rest at night when she wouldn't be expected anywhere else on the ship. But now she had to rest in between her different shifts. It wasn't easy to change. Her body did not want to hold this shape any longer. And if she wasn't careful, her appearance would--to put it in the solid's terms--melt. And then the whole plan would be ruined.

And on top of that, she'd had to learn the nurse. She had studied Lieutenant Julie Whaley before she'd been placed on the station. She knew her background, her duties, her DNA. The nurse was never part of her plan. That was someone else's job.

Then the doctor couldn't leave well enough alone. He'd come in every night to check on sickbay--even if he'd had no patients that day--and interrupt her studying. It was a good thing the nurse hadn't been posted here for very long. Bashir might have caught on that first night.

She had to work twice as hard now to perform her real duties. She had to leave Whaley's post or the nurse's to carry out her own tasks in the ship's systems. Whaley's was easier. She could change the roster and post herself in a more convenient, more isolated, position where she could slip away unnoticed. Still, she was beginning to worry that everything would not be in place in time.

* * *

Despite the threat of the ship they were chasing, life had settled back down into its routine for Dr. Julian Bashir. Only now it wasn't on the station. Here on the _Defiant_, with its much smaller crew compliment, he was left with a lot of free time on his hands. At times, on the station, he'd felt overwhelmed by the sheer number of patients he was expected to care for, usually after some attack, accident, or other emergency, but even on quiet days, he'd have one or two patients trickle in now and again for some minor problem.

But the station could house thousands of people, with both residents and visitors. The _Defiant_ only held forty-seven. The chances that, an any given time,--provided they weren't in battle--they'd all be perfectly healthy were much better. Bashir decided he couldn't really complain though. It made his job all that much easier. But there were only so many times that he could run a diagnostic on his systems or inventory his medical supplies. He usually tried to bring some of his research along with him, like his prion project or his notes on the blight, when he had more time to prepare. But this had been short notice and the notes on the _Defiant_ were not up-to-date.

Thankfully, the shift was ending soon, and he'd meet Jadzia and the Chief for dinner. He decided to spend more time next shift on the bridge, where at least something was happening.

He couldn't go to dinner without checking everything one more time though. It would nag at his conscience all through the meal if he didn't. It wouldn't take too long anyway. Sickbay on the _Defiant_ was a very small place.

There were three movable biobeds, all functioning perfectly. Diagnostic systems were fine. All his supplies seemed to be in their proper places. Nothing was missing. There were stasis drawers along one wall. They were used to temporarily store a patient, in the instance that the _Defiant_'s medical bay just wasn't adequate, until proper treatment could be provided. Or, of course, they were used when it was too late for medical treatment at all. It would serve as a temporary morgue. He checked each of the drawers' controls. None were activated.

No patients. And the log was up-to-date. That was it. He checked with the nurse on duty and then headed out the door. His stomach growled. Perfect timing.

* * *

Whaley walked carefully down the corridor, making sure that her feet stayed solid. The door to her quarters opened immediately when she stepped in front of it. It took a lot of concentration to lift her foot from the ground to step inside. Once in, the door closed and she glanced around the small room to make sure there was no one else there. Only then did she let herself release the solid form she'd been holding. She sank down to the floor in a liquid blob and, worried that one of the other crewmen who shared the quarters might return, she moved to the replicator. Raising herself up to its height, she began to slip behind the panel and pour herself into the space behind it, being careful not to touch the power conduits.

She moved off a little further into the ship and then stopped. She'd been resting here everyday for a few hours since this mission started. No one had found her, nor was anyone likely to. In a few hours, she'd have to continue her preparations. Her people were counting on her. If she failed, the whole mission would fail as well.

* * *

Julian Bashir reached the mess hall before the others and chose a table for them. He was careful to leave Worf's seat free. It wasn't that it was really his seat, and to be truthful, Bashir found it quite childish that Worf thought of it that way, but it was hardly worth arguing over. A seat was a seat, and Bashir could sit in any of them without complaint. But he didn't see any reason not to tease Worf about it when he had the opportunity.

It was a risky thing to tease a Klingon, especially one who outranked him, so Julian was always careful to do it in small ways. He waited for a turn at the replicator and then ordered his food along with one extra large glass of prune juice. When he returned to the table he set the prune juice squarely in front of Worf's spot and then sat on the opposite side of the table.

Jadzia and Worf arrived together, having come from the bridge. Jadzia smiled and nodded his way before going to the replicator for her dinner. Three people were ahead of her in line. Worf stared for a moment, trying to decide if someone else had sat in his seat. Julian just smiled innocently and waved, satisfied with Worf's confused expression. Worf's face stiffened visibly before he walked over to the table. He stared at his seat for a few moments and then looked around the room, trying to spot the perpetrator.

Julian let him stew for a few seconds more then said, innocently, "Tough day on the bridge?"

Worf, obviously in no mood for small talk, grumbled that it was an ordinary day. "Nothing has changed," his deep voice rumbled.

By that time, Jadzia was finishing up at the replicator and Chief O'Brien was walking in the door. Worf tried not to appear as annoyed as he was, but he wasn't very good at hiding such emotions. "Is someone sitting here?" he asked.

Julian shook his head and took a bite of his pasta. "I don't know," he lied. "It," he gestured toward the glass, "was here before I arrived. I haven't seen anyone."

Jadzia came up to the table, directly across from Worf, and eyed the doctor suspiciously before sitting down. To her credit, she played along. "Something wrong, Worf?" she asked.

That did it. Julian had to clench his teeth to keep from laughing. Worf was speechless. He stood there with his mouth open trying to think of what to say without sounding like a child. Dax didn't make him try too hard though. She reached over and grabbed the glass. Holding it to her nose, she sniffed once and then made a face. "Don't you ever get tired of drinking prune juice at every meal?" She set the glass back down in its place and looked back up at the Klingon.

"Are you going to eat standing up, Commander?" O'Brien asked, and Julian was almost certain he saw Worf jump. _Well, maybe not_, he thought, but it was entertaining just the same.

Worf regained his composure then. He straightened up and turned to answer the Chief. "I am not yet ready to sit," was all he said before he took up a place in the line for the replicator.

Jadzia continued to stare at Bashir while the chief sat down across from her.

Julian smiled back, "And how was your day, Jadzia?"

"Fine," she said. "See many patients, Julian?"

"Not one."

Jadzia finally smiled back and nodded.

"Did I miss something?" O'Brien asked in between bites.

* * *

Ensign Mylea Thomas fought back the yawns as she stared at the console display in front of her. It was becoming a bit hypnotic, watching the same pattern of colored lines and symbols run across her screen for the past four hours. _Just four more to go_, she thought to herself. The colored lines on her display were the ion trail and anti-proton beams they were using to follow the cloaked Klingon vessel. The pattern had hardly changed in the last four hours, nor had it really changed in the last four days. And that, in the end, is what kept Ensign Thomas from falling asleep. Her body was tired of the monotony, but her mind was well aware of where that pattern was leading: straight to the home of most of the members of this crew, including herself.

For a change of pace, she'd let the computer keep an eye on the ion trails and watch the stars fly by on the main viewscreen. It was exhilarating for a little while. She'd always loved speed and the thrill of flying. That was what drove her to Starfleet. If it hadn't been for starships, she knew she would have worked in museums back on Earth like her grandmother. Mylea had long ago decided she was a complicated person, at once drawn to the past and held by the stars, fascinated by the abilities of modern technology and full of admiration for those who had lived without it. The best of both worlds.

But after awhile the streaking stars could become hypnotic, too. She studied her instruments, performing a diagnostic mentally. She checked her heading, and verified the ion trail was still there, speed still steady. Everything was fine. Back to the ion trail.

The ship ahead of her changed course abruptly. Mylea expected as much. It had been doing that for the last four days as well. Mylea altered her course to match. In an hour or so the ship would undoubtedly change course again, bringing it back on a heading toward Earth. _If they're trying to shake us_, Mylea thought, _they should try a little harder than that_. Commander Dax had not been fooled and neither would she. It seemed to be a half-hearted attempt at best. Still she reported the change to the bridge commander.

Wieland, who was sitting across from her at the Engineering station, stretched his arms in front of him and then leaned back again in his chair. He turned to look over at her. "Oh, Thomas, I almost forgot."

"What?" Mylea glanced over at him and then returned her attention to the main viewscreen.

"My mother sent me a holoprogram of the opera Susana was in last month. I know, we don't have any holodecks here on the ship, but she also sent video. You interested?"

"Which composer? Which opera? And which theater?"

Wieland smirked and shook his head at her bluntness. "Mozart, of course. _Don Giovanni_. And some theater in Prague. I don't remember the name."

"Well, it makes a difference, Chris." Mylea checked her instruments again and turned to look at her friend. His eyes were on his own console where his fingers flitted across the surface. "It could be the Old National Theater or the Estates. He premiered _Don Giovanni_ in Prague, you know."

"It was something I couldn't pronounce," he said, giving her a glance. "Probably in Czech. Started with an 's.'"

"_Stavovské_, perhaps?" She turned back to her display.

"What?"

"_Stavovské_. It's Czech. It's starts with an 's.' Is that the one?"

"I guess so," Wieland feigned a sigh of exasperation. "You're not getting bored, are you?"

"Of course not," Mylea lied. It wasn't really a lie. She wasn't bored now. Chris Wieland was always good for a little entertainment now and then. She suspected he hadn't forgotten to ask her to see the opera with him, but had just waited until the shift got a little heavy. "If it is the _Stavovské_, then that's where he premiered it in 1787. And in that case, I'd love to see it."

"Oh, I see," Wieland teased. "My sister starring as Donna Anna isn't enough for you."

"No, not when it means I can see the same theater Mozart saw. It wouldn't be the same if she were playing in New York." The ion trail shifted again on her display. _They're early_, she thought and adjusted her course to match. "Changing course again, sir."

"Back toward Earth?" the bridge commander asked from behind her.

"Yes, sir."

"They're early."

* * *

The changeling was stretched out long and thin in the confining space. To a solid, she would probably be likened to a snake, but the thought never crossed her own mind. She was too busy worrying about other things. The ship would reach Earth in three days and she still had much to prepare if her mission was to succeed. And she only had a few more minutes before she was expected in sickbay as Nurse Hausmann.

Moving through the spaces to a Jefferies tube, she was careful to make sure she was alone before she emerged completely. She formed four tendrils that reached up to grasp the handles of one of the panels and pulled the cover loose. There was a dark spot in her form, suspended in the gel of her body. With a rippling motion, she pushed it forward, up over the cover she still held, until she could place it inside the opened panel. When she was finished she pushed the cover into place and pulled herself, snakelike, back into the tighter spaces of the ship.

She emerged again from the ceiling above a corridor on deck two. She paused only to be sure the area was empty and then let herself fall to the floor, easily forming the body of Nurse Hausmann from the feet up. She wasn't too worried about being seen. It was 'night' on the ship and most of the crew was returning to quarters to sleep. She began to walk down the corridor.

Another corridor crossed the one she was in, a few meters ahead. She could hear the hushed voices of the crewmen in that corridor. Just as she was about to step around the corner, she noticed the color gold from the lower edge of her visual range. The uniform. She shrugged her shoulders once and the color of her undershirt changed to the blue of someone in medicine. Now she started to worry that she had the wrong communicator badge. She put it out of her mind though, it was too late to change for now. Bashir would be by before long to check on things before he went to sleep. She had to be there when he came. Later, when she was alone, she could check it and slip off to her quarters to exchange it if need be.

She hadn't been on duty for more than ten minutes before Bashir entered. "How are you this evening?" he asked cordially.

"Fine, Doctor."

He was still standing in the doorway. "Everything's still quiet, I presume," he said looking around the room. The changeling wasn't sure if it had been a question or a statement. She nodded.

"Well," he sighed, "that's good, really. Any problems with the equipment?" he asked, raising his eyebrows slightly. The changeling thought he sounded hopeful.

Hausmann shook her head. "Everything's fine. I suspect we'll have plenty to do in a few days."

He sighed again and crossed his arms across his chest. His dark eyes were cast toward the floor. "You're probably right." He looked up at her with a sad little smile. "But I hope we're just as bored."

* * *

Satisfied that sickbay was in order, Doctor Bashir turned toward his quarters for the night. He tried not to feel guilty as he stepped into the turbolift. His dressing down of Nurse Hausmann a few days back had been warranted. And he didn't feel that he'd been overly harsh. But the nurse was always very formal with him now. She did her job. He had no complaints there. But she never smiled anymore, never greeted him when he entered. She only nodded. He never even saw her in the mess hall or talking to one of the other nurses. It just wasn't like her, and he was afraid it was because of him.

He could understand why she would act that way though. He, himself, had never taken criticism very well. He would accept it graciously enough, but it ate away at him when the others couldn't see. He just couldn't forget it and move on. Maybe Hausmann was having the same problem.

The turbolift stopped and he walked out into the darkened corridor. It was rather late. He put his hand to his mouth to cover a yawn. His door opened in front of him. The door's frame was slightly shorter than he was, so he had to duck his head a little before he stepped inside. He yawned again and told himself that he'd just have to forget about Nurse Hausmann. He'd done the right thing and he'd just have to wait for her to come to terms with it.

* * *

"Status, Dax?" Captain Sisko had called a staff meeting on the bridge to discuss their plans. His officers sat at their stations or stood around him.

Dax turned around to face the captain's chair. "Judging by the ion trail we're about thirty minutes behind the Klingon ship," she stated.

"We've gained on them," Worf declared.

"Not enough," Sisko returned. "How long until we reach the Solar system?"

Dax didn't need to check her instruments. She knew the answer. "Three hours, Benjamin."

Sisko looked around the room. O'Brien was the next to speak. He was sitting at the Engineering station. "The ship is holding up fine, sir. She'll be ready when we do catch them."

"I suspect Earth's defense forces will catch them first," Bashir added cautiously. He turned when Kira spoke.

"Let's hope so," she said.

Sisko was leaning back in his chair, looking through his steepled fingers. He gave one quick nod, and then looked up at his officers. "But we're going to stay on them anyway."

"We should prepare for battle," Worf growled.

"We are prepared," Dax countered. "There's really not much more we can do at the moment."

Bashir watched the Klingon from across the captain. He and Worf were standing on either side of the captain's chair. When he spoke again, Worf's voice was a little louder, but his eyes were less focused on the captain. "We could charge the weapons and load the torpedo bays."

Sisko shook his head. "It's a bit early for that. We'll have time to arm our weapons when we enter the system. For now, just keep everything ready."

Everyone turned to go back to their stations. "Doctor," Sisko called.

Bashir stopped, turned back, and waited for the captain to speak.

Sisko didn't face him, and he spoke quietly. "You might want to prepare sickbay."

"Of course," Bashir replied just as softly but with conviction. Sisko nodded.

When Bashir turned again, he saw that O'Brien had waited for him. Noting Bashir's somber expression, he didn't speak until they'd stepped into the turbolift and the doors were closed. "Well," he said, "I can't say that I'm looking forward to going home this time."

Bashir raised his eyebrows and gave his friend a small smile, but he really just didn't know what to say. Many times, he'd thought for certain that he would not look forward to returning to Earth, but every time he saw that blue marble planet shining in the blackness of space, he couldn't help but feel that it was still home to at least part of him. But under these circumstances--a Dominion ship threatening that home--no one on this ship was looking forward to it. _Well, maybe Worf_, he thought.

Bashir sighed. "I just wish we knew what they were up to, Chief."

"Can't quite tell with them, can we?"

The turbolift stopped on deck two before either one could continue the conversation. Bashir stepped out and headed down the corridor toward sickbay. He had work to do. Nearly all of his staff was present now. The small medical facility was crowded with nurses and medics, checking supplies and getting things ready in case there would be casualties when the _Defiant_ caught up to the Klingon cruiser. In the commotion and the crowd, Bashir didn't even notice that Nurse Hausmann wasn't there.

* * *

The changeling worked frantically, forgetting form, but not awareness. She still had to take care not to be discovered or to have her work discovered prematurely. Everything had to be timed just right. It was a risky enterprise--more risky than some missions the Founders had undertaken--with no guarantee of success. But the prize would be worth it. It would give them an unprecedented doorway into the Alpha Quadrant and the Federation despite their recent setbacks.

* * *

Major Kira Nerys sat up a little straighter and arched her back to stretch it. She was starting to feel the tension build in her shoulders. It was a familiar feeling. With it came the adrenaline. She checked the time. One half hour until they reached the system. If that ship was headed toward Earth, they would intercept it there in thirty minutes. And Kira could feel a battle coming on.

That used to scare her, when she was younger. But she'd been fighting battles against the Cardassians since she was twelve. She'd taken her share of hits. She knew what to expect. She could feel herself growing more alert, more wary, but not afraid.

It was a little different, she had to admit, fighting here in this ship than it was on the ground. She wasn't sure which she preferred. The ship offered security and power. But it was also vulnerable. At least on a planet there was air to breathe. Put enough holes in a starship and it wouldn't matter if you survived the gunfire. But then there were two other, larger ships out there to help. It was the Klingon ship that should be worried.

Leaning over her console again, she double-checked the diagnostics. Everything seemed to be in order. They'd have shields when necessary, and the weapons systems were online as well, though not yet fully-charged. That could wait a little while longer.

The waiting was the worst, Kira thought. She could stand the battle, the fighting, but she hated waiting for it to come. She sat back in her chair and looked over at Dax. Jadzia Dax, as always, had a perfectly calm look about her. If the tension ever got to her, she rarely ever let it show. Her eyes shifted from her console to the main viewscreen and back again.

Sisko, behind her, was staring silently at the screen, his fingers steepled in front of his chin. A half an hour was a long time to wait. "How are we doing, Old Man?" he asked.

"Same as ever, Benjamin," Dax replied without looking up, though her lips did turn up in just a hint of smile at the nickname.

Then suddenly the smile was gone. The captain hadn't seen it from where he was sitting, but Kira hadn't missed it. "What?" she asked, allowing a hint of impatience into her voice.

Dax looked up at her and then turned to Sisko. "They've changed course."

Kira had been nearly ready to stand up. But she sat back down. "They've _been_ changing course."

"But this is different."

"Follow them, Commander," Captain Sisko said. He'd caught the confusion in his friend's voice. "Where are we heading?"

"To Sol," Dax replied. Her brows were furrowed.

"Isn't that where we were heading before?" Kira asked, looking to the captain for the answer.

He looked back to Dax. She met his gaze. "Not the system, Ben. The star."

Sisko touched a control beside his chair. "Senior officers to the bridge."

* * *

Sisko didn't look up as the turbolift began bringing the rest of his senior staff to the bridge. "Keep on them, Dax. I want to know if they change course again." She nodded smartly and turned back to her controls.

Now Sisko took the time to assess the room. Only O'Brien was missing. But even now the Chief of Operations was stepping out of the turbolift. "There's been a course change," the captain said calmly, watching for his staff's reactions. "We're now heading for the sun."

Worf was stoic. His expression didn't change. "There have been many suns along the way. Why this one?"

"We have less than thirty minutes to figure that out, Commander," Sisko replied evenly.

"They wouldn't be trying to destroy the star?" Kira threw out. She wouldn't put it past them. They'd tried it before with her own sun and a changeling impersonating Bashir.

Dax shook her head. "That would take more weapons than either of us have. There's no evidence of that kind of explosive," she added, realizing that Kira must have been thinking about.

"They wouldn't come all this way just to destroy themselves," Bashir added thoughtfully. "Maybe they're still heading for Earth."

Kira shot the doctor a look that told him he hadn't been listening. But Sisko knew he had been. Bashir just didn't always express himself in the most efficient manner. Sisko decided he should try and draw the doctor out before the major did. "What do you mean, Doctor?"

Bashir stared at the viewscreen. Dax had it set to the highest magnification, and the sun was just becoming visible. "Maybe they're not going to the sun. Maybe they're going around it."

Sisko thought he actually felt his heart sink a little lower in his chest. Around the sun.

"If Earth is prepared for them," Bashir continued, turning to the major, "they wouldn't stand a chance. Not against Earth's defenses. At least they'd have no chance _now_."

Dax had caught it, too, and she explained it for them all. "By setting the proper speed and trajectory around a star," she took a deep breath, "ships have been known to travel through time."

The realization hit Kira hard. For a moment she just stared at Dax. Dax didn't really notice. She was already plotting the trajectory of the cloaked ship. "Major," Sisko snapped, not harshly, but enough to return her attention, "Get me Admiral Todman of Starfleet Command."

She nodded crisply and then turned back to her station.

"Ten seconds, Benjamin." It wasn't the _Defiant_ she was referring to. The Klingon ship had to be nearing the sun.

"We need the exact trajectory, Dax," Sisko reminded her, though he knew he didn't really need to. "O'Brien, double-check it."

"Already on it, sir," O'Brien called out. Sisko nodded, satisfied. The all knew just how important this was.

"Five."

"I've got Todman," Kira called out.

"Have him wait." Sisko watched the viewscreen, even though he knew there was nothing to see. The Klingon ship was still cloaked.

"Two." Dax said. "One."

For the briefest instant there was a brilliant flash of light. But it was gone before they could even register that they'd seen it.

"They're gone, Benjamin."

Sisko wasted no time. "Trajectory?"

"Got it," Dax answered. O'Brien nodded.

It was time to talk to Starfleet Command. "On screen, Major."

Admiral Todman's image filled the screen. "We were monitoring, Captain."

"We're still on course, Admiral. Do we follow?"

"Someone has to, Captain, and you're the logical choice." He lowered his eyes for a moment and then brought them back up to meet the captain's. "You have less crew." His face grew more stern. "You also have a cloak."

Sisko nodded. The _Lakota_ and the _Venture_ each carried more than twice the compliment of the _Defiant_.

"The timeline must be protected," Todman went on. "They've got a head start. You'll want to figure that into your trajectory. Don't give them time to do any damage."

Sisko looked to Dax and O'Brien. "My officers are already working on it."

The Admiral continued, his voice grim. "That ship has gone too far, Captain. Destroy them. Todman out." Todman winked out and the sun was again on the viewscreen looming larger with each second.

"What have we got, Dax?"

"The chief and I have managed to trace their exact trajectory,"

"What if they changed it as they went around," Kira asked, "where our sensors couldn't read them?"

"They'd burn up," Bashir answered.

"Dax?"

"Should put them in the mid-twentieth century."

"Set course to follow."

Dax nodded and the stars on the viewscreen sped by even faster. The magnification dropped, pulling the sun farther from them, but it was catching up fast. "Time?"

"Twelve minutes," Dax replied curtly.

There was a hard set to the captain's face now. "Increase speed. Battle stations."

* * *

The changeling heard the klaxon. If she'd had lips, she would've smiled. But only a small smile. She had even more work to do now. Things were underway. She quickly closed the panel where she'd been working and then made her way down toward engineering. It took her several minutes to arrive at her destination. She allowed herself to slowly pour out and spread along the ceiling where she could see what was happening. There were only two solids working. O'Brien was not one of them. Apparently he was on the bridge with the other senior staff.

When both of the engineers had their backs to her, the shapeshifter silently dropped to the floor, forming herself into the now-familiar form of Lieutenant Whaley.

* * *

Crewman Wieland checked his station and tried not to be too nervous. _Thomas is going to love this_, he thought. But the butterflies just wouldn't go away. The captain hadn't said where they were heading exactly, but Wieland could read the charts. He knew about the maneuver. They were going around the sun, very close, and at warp. They were going to travel through time.

Given Starfleet's Temporal Displacement Policy, this was not something that was done very often. It was too dangerous, to both the ship and the timeline. The strain on a ship this size could tear it apart. Fortunately, the _Defiant_ was more heavily armored then most ships this size. But it would still take quite a beating. "I think we'll be putting in some long hours after this," he said aloud, and tried to laugh. He didn't really feel like laughing.

"Don't we already?" Crewman Armand asked without looking up. "Run a diagnostic on the stabilizers and inertial dampers. I don't want this ship to shake itself apart on our account."

"Right," Wieland acknowledged. Wieland had thought he could hear a hint of nerves in her voice as well. At least he wasn't alone. He let his shoulders drop just a little and was surprised at just how tight they'd been. He pushed his chair out and turned to stand up. Before he could turn all the way around, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He tried to turn his head, but the hand wrapped itself around his neck. He tried to call out to Armand, but only the slightest breath of air could escape the grip. He clawed at the arm that held him, but his fingers seemed to go right through it.

* * *

Patricia Armand tapped the fingers of her left hand on the console in front of her. It was a nervous habit, one she had tried to break. Most of the time she was successful, but at times like this when there was little to do but wait for whatever was making her nervous, she'd forget and she would suddenly be tapping again.

Figures scrolled by on her screen at a dizzying pace. Trying to read them as they flew by was impossible, so she let her vision glaze over and watched the shapes of the figures as they crossed the screen. The computer would stop and point out any anomalous readings.

A loud thump brought her out of her reverie.

* * *

Whaley hardened her left hand again, tightening the grip on the engineer's neck until his eyes looked as if they would pop out of his head. _So fragile_, she mused and wondered why her people had thought to call them solid.

She glanced over to the other one. Armand. One of Whaley's friends. She still hadn't noticed. Though he struggled, the man had been unable to make a sound. She had let her arm grow soft, so that he couldn't get a grip to pull her hand away. Not that he would've been able to. A hand didn't have to be made of flesh and bone.

And then he kicked the console. _Stupid!_ Whaley chided herself and jerked the chair farther from the console so that the man's flailing legs could no longer reach it. But the damage was done. She turned to face Armand. Before the woman could extract herself from her own chair, Whaley thrust out her right arm, and, letting go of the form, she let it lengthen and wrap around Armand's neck. She pulled back sharply, whipping the chair around until she could feel the vertebrae snap in the woman's neck. The chair continued to spin slowly as she released the woman. Her head fell back on the chair, and her arms hung limply from her shoulders.

Whaley returned her attention to the man. He, too, had ceased his struggle. His bulging eyes stared blankly up at her. She softened her hand, making it flesh once more and felt for a pulse. The man was dead.

* * *

"All hands," Captain Sisko's voice rang through every corridor and room of the ship, "brace yourselves." Sisko's eyes were locked on the dimmed viewscreen ahead of him. No matter how many times he told himself that his ship was not going to burn up in the sun, it still looked like they were flying right into the middle of that large boiling ball of fire. It wasn't even really a ball anymore; it filled the screen from edge to edge.

"Ten," Dax called loudly. She still sounded perfectly professional, but Sisko could hear the apprehension in her voice.

O'Brien called out the speed. "Warp nine point seven. Nine point eight."

"Five seconds," Dax warned.

"Nine point nine." The ship was shaking so hard the Chief had to yell.

"Two. One. . . ."

If she said "zero", Sisko didn't hear it. The sun blazed bright, drowning the bridge in its light until the colored readouts on the consoles and stations all around him were no longer visible. For the slightest instant, Sisko thought he could make out Dax's silhouette moving in slow motion against the blinding light. And then all was blackness.

* * *

Julian Bashir slowly raised his head from the biobed. Nurse Baines lay beside him, her arms dangling off the opposite side of the bed. She began to move as well. Blowing out a deep breath, Bashir set his feet on the floor and stood up. The rest of his staff began to do the same. They'd all braced themselves against the biobeds and had fallen across them side by side when they blacked out.

Bashir placed a hand to his stomach and frowned. "Well, that was fun," he said, being sarcastic. His stomach felt like it was turning somersaults.

Baines tried to give him a wry smile, but her stomach was apparently bothering her as well.

"Is everyone nauseous?" Bashir asked. Everyone nodded.

* * *

Kira Nerys lifted her head from the console quickly, ignoring the dizziness she felt. She turned, counting the crewmembers on the bridge, watching for just a moment to see if they were beginning to move. Dax sat up and put her hand against her stomach. Her other hand immediately went to her console. Kira looked at the main viewscreen where the star had loomed so brightly before. It was still dimmed--or the sensors had been knocked out--because she couldn't make out any stars there.

"Damage report." Sisko was awake, too. "Where are we, Dax?" he asked as he pulled himself back into his chair.

Dax checked her readings again. "Right where we should be. Calculating in a slight time difference, I used the Klingon ship's same trajectory. They are headed for Earth, Benjamin. Or at least they will be."

"So we _are_ here before them?" Kira asked. The stars had reappeared on the viewscreen as more of the crew managed to pull themselves up from the floor and return to their stations.

"I'm not picking up their ion signature. But we're definitely on a heading toward Earth."

Sisko nodded. "We're at the right place, but are we at the right time? Major, check the astrometric readings."

Kira turned back to her console. She had to press a few controls before the station even came online.

"Minor damage only, sir," O'Brien was saying from the Engineering station. "I'm reading a minor fluctuation in the warp core--stabilized. She seems to have held up pretty well, considering."

Sisko didn't say anything, but nodded his acknowledgment. "Major?"

"Mid-twentieth century. Right where we wanted. 1943, to be specific."

"Are the weapons online, Mr. Worf?"

Kira had forgotten that Worf was on the bridge. "Online and charged, Captain."

"Good," Sisko said gravely, "Activate cloaking device. Dax, continue to scan for that ship. Commander Worf, prepare one quantum torpedo. Major, as soon as they're in range, we'll decloak, lock on the ship and fire that torpedo."

There were acknowledgments all around the bridge as everyone set to work. Kira had turned back to the tactical station. "Bashir to Bridge," the doctor's soft accented voice came over the communications system.

"Go ahead, Doctor," Sisko answered.

"We've got some minor injuries," the doctor reported. "Nothing to worry about. How's everyone up there?"

Sisko glanced around the room. "Not too bad."

"Yes, we were all a bit nauseous at first, but it seems to fade fairly quickly."

"Doctor, we're going to try to take this ship out fast, but be ready just in case we take a few hits of our own."

"Yes, sir. Bashir out."

"Shall I establish orbit, Benjamin?" Dax asked. Kira looked up to the viewscreen to see a blue and turquoise marble-like planet with swirling white clouds. Unlike most of the other times she'd seen it though, there were no satellites or space stations hovering around it. Only one small moon circled it slowly.

"Yes, but keep us on the daylight side, Old Man," the Captain answered. "I don't want anyone seeing us in the night sky when we decloak."

* * *

From Engineering, Lieutenant Whaley had access to nearly any system on the ship. She knew they were in orbit now circling Earth with no one to detect them. She also knew they were cloaked, but it wouldn't really matter in the end. The ship was practically disabled already, and no one even knew it.

Without the space-time driver coil the warp drive was useless. Removing it hadn't been hard once the two engineers were taken care of. She'd sealed the doors with security force-fields so that she wouldn't be interrupted by anyone else. Of course, once the force-fields were discovered, they'd be on to her. But she expected that all would be accomplished before then.

Standing in front of the main console, Whaley rerouted more power to the external communications antennae. She checked again to make sure that diagnostics on the bridge would not register the excess power. The sling-shot effect that had taken them around the sun and back through time had worked to her advantage. There were minor system problems throughout the ship. They would serve to mask some of her own work if found. No one would suspect a saboteur. At least, not yet.

* * *

"I've got them on long-range sensors, Benjamin," Dax said, excitedly. "They're not cloaked."

"Their cloak might have shorted out on the way here," Sisko said watching the viewscreen. "On screen. Go to red alert."

The bridge was bathed in soft light and the ship was silent as they waited.

"They're cloaking." This time, Dax's voice was just barely above a whisper.

Sisko was eerily calm when he spoke, "Stand by," though inside his stomach wrenched--and it wasn't the trip around the sun. As much as he was sure this ship was a threat to Earth--an Earth that could not possibly defend itself--he hated to just blow a ship out of the sky without trying to reason with them first. It just wasn't his way. It wasn't Starfleet's way, either. But those ways had not worked yet with the Dominion, either. And one didn't stop to discuss a battle in the middle of a war. "On Dax's mark, drop cloak, raise shields and fire that torpedo." He looked over his crew, getting nods from everyone to show that they were ready. "Dax, bring us around."

"Aye, sir." Dax spun the ship slowly to the left, and the blue planet slipped to the other side of the viewscreen. "They've slowed to impulse. They're scanning us."

"Are we in range?" the captain asked.

"Not yet." Dax was intent on her readings. "I'm feeding you the coordinates, Kira." Only her hands moved on the console in front of her. There was a long moment of silence. "Mark!" she called.

Instantly the lights on the bridge went up as the cloak dropped. Shields were raised and Kira released the torpedo at the same moment. The white light of the torpedo streaked across the blackness of space toward nothing. And then it struck in a large fireball as seemingly empty space exploded. As the fire was extinguished by the vacuum around it, small bits of gleaming metal could be seen sparkling in the light from the nearby sun.

"Engage cloak," Sisko ordered quietly. "Maximum magnification, Old Man."

The lights fell again to their lower level as the cloak began to disguise the ship. The viewscreen shifted, bringing them closer to that part of space that had just erupted. A large sphere of scattered debris was slowly expanding as the chunks of metal spread out from the center.

"Any organic remains?" He hoped her answer was no. There was little reason for it to be yes. If the ship had been carrying Founders, there would be nothing organic to find.

"Nothing, Benjamin," was the reply.

Sisko let out a long breath. "Good. Let's go home."

* * *

Whaley stood in Engineering shocked by what she'd just seen. She hated them. And she hated herself. She hadn't been ready. _No_, she told herself sharply, _it was Sisko's fault. And that doctor's_. A minute more and the weapons system would have been disabled as well. A minute more. Just one minute.

She felt sick when she thought of the lives lost. So many of her people. Forty-six of her people, people she knew. She'd shared their thoughts in the Great Link. She'd felt their fears and their determination. They were her family, her people. And they were gone.

* * *

". . . not responding," Dax thought aloud. She was looking down at her console, rerouting controls and power flows, but the warp drive simply refused to respond.

"Why aren't we moving, Old Man?" Sisko asked behind her.

"It's not responding, Benjamin," she answered, still pressing controls. "I've run a level two diagnostic. I can't find anything wrong with it, but the warp drive just isn't responding."

"Maybe that maneuver knocked us around a bit more than we thought," O'Brien suggested. He walked over to Dax and looked over her shoulder. "May I?"

"Go right ahead, Chief."

There was a low growl from the back of the room. Dax turned toward the sound. Worf was frowning at his console as well. "The weapons system is also offline."

"I don't think we need them anymore," Kira commented.

Worf growled again. "I had not yet taken them offline," he nearly spat back.

"Chief?"

* * *

Sisko would pay. And that doctor, too. If she hadn't been forced to take on the nurse's persona, she would have been prepared. The weapons would not have fired. He'd pay for his curiosity. She would see to that. No matter what.

She tried to think, to concentrate. She couldn't return home. The solids would find the two engineers and know that something was wrong. They would search the ship again and find her handiwork. They would find her eventually and kill her like they'd killed all the others.

A cold hatred filled her. The solids would not leave this time. She could destroy the ship. It would not be hard to breach the containment field from here. But rejected the idea quickly. Her logical side told her that it was so that she could take this ship back to her own time and rejoin the Great Link. Without the solids, of course. The other side of her, the side that yearned for their suffering, told her that a warp-core breach was not enough for what they had done.

Whaley pulled her long arm free of the conduit and stepped back. She only had a few minutes. They would know about her soon enough. She left the force-fields intact and pulled herself up to the ceiling and into a ventilation duct. She had five minutes to get to the shuttle craft. It would take them that long to get into Engineering. By then it would be too late.

* * *

Chief Miles Edward O'Brien was perplexed. All the diagnostic systems said the ship was fine. But now the shields and the cloak were offline as well. "O'Brien to Engineering," he called. There was no answer. "Now that's odd."

"What is it, Chief?" Captain Sisko asked. O'Brien could tell he was starting to get annoyed by all this.

"No one's answering in Engineering," the Chief answered. "Armand and Wieland should be down there." He sighed and gathered up his tool kit. "I'd better go down and check it out."

O'Brien just didn't understand it. _At least the turbolifts work_, he thought, as the lift began to move. He'd checked the ship out himself before they took off. It was fine. The only reason he could think of for why they were having problems like these was sabotage. But who on the ship would be a saboteur? The last time they'd had that problem, it had turned out to be a changeling, but the crew checked out and so did the ship.

The lift stopped and O'Brien stepped out. There wasn't a sound anywhere. The doors to Engineering opened for him, but as he tried to step through he was pushed back by a light electric shock. A force-field? O'Brien tested it with his hand one more time for good measure and then called the bridge.

"This is Sisko. What's going on, Chief?"

"There's a bloody force-field keeping me out of Engineering," the chief replied incredulously. "I'm attempting to override."

"We'll see what we can do from here, Chief," Sisko told him. "I'm sending some security down there."

O'Brien peered through the open door. He couldn't see Armand or Wieland anywhere. Engineering was empty.

"Computer," O'Brien stated, "locate Crewman Armand."

"Crewman Armand is no longer on board," the computer droned in reply.

"Locate Crewman Wieland."

"Crewman Wieland is no longer on board."

There was really only one way they could have left.

"O'Brien to Transporter Room." He waited for a response. Again, there was only silence.

"Computer," O'Brien asked, "how many crewmembers are currently on board the ship?" He was afraid he wouldn't like the answer.

"There are currently thirty-six crewmembers on board the _Defiant_."

That wasn't nearly enough. O'Brien was just about to call the bridge again when the ship began to shake violently. He heard several explosions, and then the lights dimmed in the corridor. _Plasma conduit_, he thought. _We've lost main power_. And then something clicked. If they'd lost main power, then they would have also lost the force-fields.

O'Brien tested the open door to Engineering again, and his hand passed right through.

* * *

"Sisko to O'Brien," Sisko snapped. This was turning out to be a bad day. The Klingon ship hadn't been able to get off a single shot, but now the _Defiant_ was disabled. And they were disabled four hundred years before the ship was even commissioned.

"O'Brien here, sir," the chief replied. Sisko was happy to hear his voice. It meant they somehow still had internal communications at least.

"We've just lost main power, Chief."

"Yes, sir, I know. But we've lost more than that. Last I checked, there were only thirty-six crew members aboard this vessel."

Sisko wasn't sure he'd heard that right. Thirty-six members of a crew of forty-seven. Where could they all have gone?

"We're losing emergency power, Captain," Dax interrupted. "Down to seventy percent and falling."

"Cut power to anything that is not essential," Sisko ordered. "Could the computer be malfunctioning, Chief?"

"It's possible, sir," Chief O'Brien answered. Sisko could hear the agitation in his voice. "It looks like the whole systems been shot to--" The chief broke off there. Sisko was about to ask him what had happened, but the chief was back before he had a chance. "Bloody hell!"

* * *

"Dax to Bashir."

Bashir had been tending to a cut on one of the medics' arms when the call came. "Bashir here," he answered. "What is going on, Jadzia?"

"Sorry, no time to explain," Dax's voice answered. "We're losing power. We've got to cut everything we can. I'm going to have to shut down your stasis unit."

Bashir shook his head in confusion. "I'm not using any of the stasis units." He began to walk toward the wall where the stasis units were. Small instruments and vials were scattered on the floor from the explosion, and he tried not to trip on them in the low light.

"We're showing a drain from there."

Julian opened the tricorder he had in his hand and scanned the units. Despite the readout on the front of the unit, the center one was drawing power. And it was occupied. "My God!" Bashir exclaimed. "Someone's in there, Jadzia." He pressed the release control but the drawer didn't open.

"Julian?"

Whoever was in there, he knew he hadn't authorized it. That sinking feeling he'd had at the beginning of this trip began to grow again. "Cut the power, Jadzia," he decided, half-afraid of what he would find inside.

"Julian, are you alright?" Dax asked.

Julian didn't answer right away, but watched his tricorder as the power to the unit fell off to nothing. Instantly there was a muffled sound from the drawer. Someone was trying to get out. "Someone's in the drawer, Jadzia." He reached his hand out toward the release. "I'm going to open--"

Before his hand had touched the door, a familiar tingling grabbed his body, and he was unable to move.

"Julian, I'm reading a transporter signal in your area. Julian?"

The medic who had been standing behind him saw the doctor's figure fade and his tricorder fall to the ground. He brought his hand up to his chest, activating his comm badge. "Emergency!" he called. "The doctor's just been transported."

* * *

Dax spun around to face the captain. But he was already standing by her side. "Hold it, Chief," he said over the comm system. He looked to Dax. "Where did it come from?" he asked quickly.

Dax turned back to her console and began furiously pressing controls, trying to get the sensors to cooperate. "One of the shuttles, Benjamin." She studied her readouts a bit harder.

"Security to shuttle bay." Sisko ordered. Without waiting for a confirmation he turned to Kira. "Hail that shuttle, Major."

"I can't, sir. Communications are still out."

"Internals aren't," Sisko countered. "Is the shuttle still on board?"

"Captain," O'Brien called, still over the comm line, "it's a changeling."

Everyone on the bridge froze when they heard that. But only for a second. "How do you know, Chief?"

There wasn't time for the chief to answer. Another explosion rocked the ship, much stronger than the ones before. Sisko was thrown to the floor. Warning sirens and lights began to flash. The computer was finally ready to acknowledge that it was damaged.

"Damage report."

"We've got a hull breach!" Dax called out. "The shuttle bay. We do have emergency force-fields at least." She struggled with the controls again. "It looks like three casualties, Benjamin. I can't be sure though."

"Send a medical team there," Sisko ordered, getting to his feet. "You were saying, Chief?"

"It's those parasitic devices again, like they used a few years back." He hesitated for a moment. "Sir, this is a mess. I'm not quite sure where to start."

That was a good question. Where to start? There had to be clues in that shuttle as to the whereabouts of the missing crewmembers. He only hoped they hadn't been blown out into space when the hull breached. But even more important at this point was regaining control of this ship. The devices the changeling had used before, when they had nearly sparked a war with the Tzenkethi, had spread from system to system. "Get rid of those devices, Chief," Sisko decided. "And then start with the most important systems. Make sure we still have life-support and then get main power back online." And then he remembered, "Take someone with you, Chief. No one goes anywhere alone."

Sisko turned back to Dax. He really didn't need her at the helm anymore. The ship wasn't going anywhere. "Dax, run a scan for all lifeforms on this ship. See if we're losing any more people."

Dax nodded and returned to her console.

Next, he looked to Kira. "Major, you and Mr. Worf should go and check out the shuttle bay. I want to know if the changeling was on that shuttle when it blew."

Kira nodded and then rose to leave her seat. Worf followed her to the turbolift without a word.

Sisko sat back in his chair and thought for a moment. He worried about the time. "Anything, Dax?"

Dax shook her head. "We're holding at twenty-seven lifeforms."

Twenty-seven. Three known dead. Seventeen missing. Or sixteen if one of them was a changeling. Too many. There were only two places they could have gone. The cold, vacuum of space or the planet that spun below them. Sisko looked up to the viewscreen to see the Earth, but it was blank. "External sensors?" he asked.

Dax shook her head again. "They're gone."

Sisko slammed a fist down on the arm of his chair. "We're going to need those sensors, Dax, to find our people."

She turned to look at him, but didn't say anything. He could see the worry in her eyes. And something else. Like she wanted to say something. "What is it, Old Man?"

"The first night out," she began, "he. . . ." She hesitated and Sisko decided she was talking about Bashir. "He'd been going on about one of the blood samples. It was different from the others. But it was still blood, still human."

"Apparently it found a way around the blood screening," Sisko thought aloud. Then another thought struck him. "Dax, what was going on with the stasis unit?"

Dax looked confused, like she couldn't see what he was getting at. "He said it wasn't in use, but it was drawing power. I was going to shut it down. He said there was someone inside, but he couldn't open it. He was about to try it when he..." She stopped again.

"We'll find him," Sisko admonished her. "The question is, who was in the unit?" Sisko tapped his comm badge. "Sisko to sickbay."

"Sickbay here. Any sign of the doctor?" It was the medic that had called earlier.

"None yet. Sensors are out," Sisko answered. He thought it best not to go into all the details just yet. "Did you find out who was in the stasis unit?"

"Yes, sir," the answer came back. "It's Nurse Hausmann."

But how long was she in the unit before Dax noticed it on the bridge? "Is she alright?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, fine. She was sedated. She's still a little groggy."

"I'll need to ask her some questions. I'll be right down."

The bridge was nearly deserted. But it didn't matter. Dax was waiting for his next decision. "Still twenty-seven?" he asked. She checked the readings and nodded. "Let's go have a talk with Nurse Hausmann."


	3. Chapter 3

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Three**

When the tingling faded and he was able to see again, Bashir found himself standing in the streets of an old, definitely European town. There was a pallor over it, though. The buildings were dark but trimmed with a light frosting of snow. It almost looked like an old, primitive black and white filmstrip he'd seen in school. People bustled about him, all with heads bowed, hurrying to wherever they were going. Everyone looked up to stare at him for a moment before running off again. There was a cacophony of sounds--none of them comforting. They were sounds of misery and fear. The cold air carried the smell of rot, of hunger, and of death.

No one spoke to him, but he could hear voices. They spoke in a language he could not readily identify, but his universal translator let him know what they were saying. "They're coming this way!"

"I forgot my papers!"

"We must hide!"

And then he noticed the others. The people who were not staring or talking. The ones who were not moving, whose eyes were fixed on something immovable. Their bodies were frail and still and their eyes spoke of hunger more than mere words could manage. Snow lingered on their legs and shoulders.

Then there was another sound, that of engines coming closer. Bashir hadn't realized it, but there'd been no sound of engines before. That, in itself, spoke of something being terribly wrong there. He knew the year after all: 1943. Combustion engines were common technology in all major cities of Europe by that time.

Bashir turned the corner and looked down the street. There were trucks coming with soldiers in black uniforms walking in front. They pushed and shoved people as they came. The pieces were beginning to make sense. 1943. Europe. The soldiers. The people. They each wore a symbol: a six-pointed star. The soldiers shouted in a language he recognized even before his universal translator could relate their words to him. It was German. He now knew where he was--not exactly, but that didn't matter so much. Whatever city it was, he knew he was likely in more trouble than he'd ever been in his life.

Bashir took off his communicator and cupped it in his hands. He was not yet sure how he'd gotten there, but he knew he couldn't stay. "Bashir to _Defiant_," he whispered. But there was no response. "Bashir to Sisko," he tried. "Bashir to Dax." Nothing. He was cut off, alone in this place. Whatever city it was, it was a ghetto, crowded with too many people and not enough food. He didn't need to know the name of the city. It was a ghetto for the Jews. The soldiers were Nazis, SS most likely. And he himself stood out like a sore thumb in his crisp clean uniform.

Bashir tucked his comm badge into his uniform so that it couldn't be seen. He may not have been able to communicate with the others, but if they were looking for him, it was the only way they could find him.

"What do we have here?" A mocking voice came from behind him, from the direction of the street where the trucks were. Other voices joined the first. They were coming toward him. The soldiers. "Hey, Jew" they sneered. "Come here, Jew."

Julian thought for a moment before turning. If he ran, they would shoot him. Would they listen if he told them he wasn't Jewish? _Not here_, he told himself. _If I am here, I must be a Jew_.

"Hey Jew," A hand touched his shoulder, shoved him. "Are you deaf?"

Julian turned. There were four of them. He couldn't fight them all. Where would he run even if he got away? The ghettos would be walled in. And he didn't know the streets and alleys.

"What kind of clothes are these, Jew?" The loud one asked, touching his collar.

"It's all that I have," Julian answered, trying hard to keep his voice even. He did not want to show them any emotion. Fear would only feed them. Defiance would get him killed.

They all laughed at him. "Where is your star? Have you an _Ausweis_?" the loud one asked.

The universal translator had not translated that last word._ Ausweis_. "What is an _Ausweis_?" he asked knowing that it sounded stupid. To their ears, he was speaking German. Why wouldn't he know this word? But it was too late. The words were already out.

They didn't laugh at him. They didn't answer, not with words. Before Julian could react, the loud one lifted his handgun and pointed it directly at Bashir's forehead. The barrel was only a centimeter from his skin. "Have you," he spat, "an _Ausweis_?"

Bashir decided that there was no way the others could find him if he was dead, so he answered the soldier's question. He had nothing with him but his comm badge--Strange, he remembered holding a tricorder before the transport. Anyway, he had no _Ausweis_, whatever it was. "No, I haven't."

Julian almost held his breath, he had to fight to keep from it, as the loud one contemplated whether or not to shoot him and be done with it. For what seemed like minutes, he forced himself to stare at the ground, and not at the soldier or the gun barrel directly before his eyes. It made his stomach turn to play their game, to let them feel superior. The Master Race. That was what the history books had said they considered themselves. The Jews--and they considered him to be a Jew--were pests, on a level with rats. It was appalling, but they had the guns. They held the power here.

* * *

"Doctor Bashir had told me to leave the samples out," Nurse Hausmann said, her words still a little muffled from the sedative she'd been given. She'd been blood-screened three different times since waking up just to be sure she was really Nurse Hausmann. "Someone was messing with them. A security officer. I asked if she needed help." The nurse looked confused as she tried to remember. "When I approached her, this . . . thing came through her chest. It was holding a hypospray. She was a changeling. She grabbed me before I could call for help and then used the hypospray. I don't remember anything after that."

"It appears," Sisko began calmly, "that you've been in stasis for the last five days."

"What's happened to the ship?" the nurse asked. "Where's Doctor Bashir?"

"The changeling sabotaged the ship. Doctor Bashir is missing." Sisko didn't want to worry her or the other crewmembers too much just yet. "Do you remember which crewmember she was? Do you know her name?"

The nurse looked thoughtful for a few moments. "No, but I could find her in the medical records."

"I think I can call up the records, Benjamin," Dax said. She walked over to the computer and began working. "Are you sure she was security?" she asked the nurse.

"Well, security or engineering," she answered. The nurse looked back at the captain. "She was wearing gold. And she was human," she called back to Dax, but then decided she needed to correct herself. "Well, not human, but she looked like a human."

Sisko nodded.

"Here we go." Dax called their attention to the computer. "I've narrowed it down to human females in security and engineering."

The nurse went to stand beside her and began flipping through pictures. She finally stopped on an attractive young lieutenant with dark brown hair. "Lieutenant Julie Whaley," Dax read.

"That's her."

Sisko half-knew what the computer's answer would be before he asked. "Computer, locate Lieutenant Whaley."

"Lieutenant Whaley is no longer on board."

"Still twenty-seven, Old Man?" Sisko asked starting to feel just a touch of relief.

Dax nodded and gave him one of her small smiles. "Twenty-seven. I think she's gone, Benjamin."

That was one less thing to worry about. But they still had plenty of others. "Call a meeting, Dax. I want everyone still on this vessel in the mess hall in twenty minutes. O'Brien and whoever is with him can keep working, but I want them on an open comm line."

* * *

The gun lowered. "Take him to the truck," the loud one ordered.

Something hit him hard from behind. A fist or a handgun, Bashir couldn't tell. But it hurt. He stumbled forward, clasping his hand to his neck. "Move!" another soldier yelled, pushing him in the back with a rifle.

As they stepped out into the street, Bashir was surprised to see so few people there. There had been so many just a few minutes before. But now there were only the hopeless people and those the Germans had taken to the truck.

The soldier behind him shoved the butt of his rifle into Bashir's back again, causing him to lurch forward. The cobblestone street was slick, but he caught himself and didn't fall. Ahead was the truck, a big, plain truck, already half-filled with fearful people. They cried out that they had their papers, just upstairs, in the flat, if only they could go get it. The Germans ignored them or hit them with their guns.

Julian's mind raced as he neared that truck. He couldn't escape. He didn't know the city, and there were too many Nazis with guns. They might be primitive, compared to the phasers and disruptors he was used to, but he knew they were no less fatal. And if he left this place, it would be harder for the captain and the others to find him. Besides, he knew what happened to those people in the trucks. Every student in school learned about the camps. Places like Auschwitz. He'd even toured there once with his father when he was very young, seen the rooms full of shoes and human hair. But he was being pushed closer and closer to the truck. There was nothing he could do.

They reached the truck. There were other people there, so Bashir had to wait his turn. There was a woman beside him. She was young and pretty despite the dirtiness of her face and clothes. She wore rags and an old torn coat that was too small for her. She had a wild, terrified look in her eyes, though one of panic, searching for hope. And then they lit up. They'd found the hope.

"Tenia!" a man's voice shouted. Bashir followed her gaze to the young man who was running toward them, a piece of paper fluttering in his hand as he held it out for everyone to see. "Tenia, I have it!" he screamed. "I have her _Ausweis_! You can't take her! I have it!"

Tenia tried to turn and go to him, but another soldier prevented it, holding her around the waist and laughing as she strained against him. She stopped struggling and tried logic. "He has it," she told the soldier. "He has it there." She pointed to the young man. And just as she did there was the sound of a gunshot, and the young man fell to the ground still with the _Ausweis_ in his hand.

The woman, Tenia, screamed and struggled hard again against the soldier holding her back. She was crazy now, in shock. Bashir was right beside her, and he reached for her, too, knowing the danger she was in. She still had a chance, if he could stop her. She was young and still relatively healthy. She wouldn't be gassed right away.

"He's gone," Bashir told her as he tried to pull her away from the soldier. "Get in the truck. It's all we can do." The soldier let her go, and she began to calm down. She didn't face Bashir at first, but she let him lead her to the truck. "I'll help you."

Bashir pulled himself into the truck and turned to help her. She was looking at him now, but her eyes were blank. The tears had stopped. And then there was a handgun beside her head. "No!" he shouted but the sound was lost amid the eruption of the gun and the woman's head. The projectile broke out through her face in a torrent of blood and bone, and the woman's hand slipped from his own. Someone else screamed behind him, but Bashir couldn't move.

Bashir could not believe it. He knew what the Nazis were capable of. He had read it. He knew what they thought of Jews. But to see it, to experience it here was far more than his head could have taken in with mere words on a screen or even pictures. The woman was dead. This was reality, a reality he was in the middle of. He wanted to shout out to them they didn't have to do that, to shoot her in the head. She was coming, getting into the truck. But his mouth, thankfully, knew better than to move.

Other people were pushed into the truck in a more hurried fashion, forcing Bashir back from the edge where he'd watched her die. And slowly then his mind began to take hold of him again. Someone else had screamed.

There was a muffled crying sound still. Bashir looked around. The sound was coming from a man, perhaps in his forties. A stain of red was advancing down his pant leg. The bullet had hit him. Several arms held him, kept him from falling. A hand covered his mouth, keeping him quiet. Bashir's first thought was that it was cruel, but his second thought was that it was right. He had to be kept quiet. Tenia had not stayed quiet.

"Put pressure on it," Bashir finally said, keeping his voice low. The truck was getting crowded, but he pushed his way over through the crowd there. An older woman beside the injured man took off her head scarf and pressed it onto his wound. Bashir clawed at the sleeve of his own uniform until it finally began to come loose. When he reached the man, he wrapped the sleeve around the man's leg, pulling it tight around the bullet hole while the man screamed into the hand that covered his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Julian said, as he tied the make-shift tourniquet, "but we have to stop the bleeding." There were no instruments with which to take the bullet out and nothing to give the man for the pain. But he soon lost consciousness and collapsed to the floor of the already crowded truck. There was also no water for cleaning the wound, and Bashir was sure, with the lack of sanitation in the ghetto, that it would soon be infected.

The man would die. If he didn't die now because of this, then he would die when they reached whatever camp they were going to. He wouldn't be fit for work. The only thing he could really do for the man was try and make him comfortable, which wasn't easy when there was no more room in the truck. At least the press of people on every side kept him relatively warm. Maybe he wouldn't go into shock.

* * *

"You there, Chief?" Sisko asked.

O'Brien's voice came back to him over the comm line. "We're listening, sir. And we've just about got a handle on these parasites. That should give us a few systems back."

"Good." Sisko made his way to the front of the room to where Dax and the other senior officers were waiting. Except Bashir. It nagged at him that the doctor was missing. It nagged at him that sixteen members of his crew were missing. The remaining twenty-one members of the _Defiant_'s crew milled around, mumbling. They were confused and, he had to admit, scared.

"May I have your attention?" Sisko spoke. He didn't raise his voice, but kept it low and calm. Every eye turned to him, and the room became quiet. "A lot of things have happened in the last hour or two," he continued. "It's going to take all of us to get to the bottom of it.

"First, there has been a saboteur on board the ship." The quiet became silence as that sank in. "A changeling. We believe the changeling came on board under the guise of Lieutenant Whaley."

Someone spoke what they were probably all wondering, "What about the blood screening?"

Sisko let Dax field that one. Bashir had talked to her about it after all. "She passed. The blood sample taken from her was human blood. Doctor Bashir had noted a slight deviation in viscosity and oxygen content. In hindsight, that would be consistent with the blood of a recently deceased human."

Sisko didn't want them to dwell on that. "Commander Worf will be heading up the investigation of the changeling. If any of you saw Lieutenant Whaley or have any information about her activities on this voyage, please speak to Commander Worf after you're dismissed."

Sisko took a deep breath and then moved on to the next topic. "Before we discuss the physical damage to the ship," he said, and then he stopped. He wasn't quite sure of the best way to do this. He started again. "We believe that the changeling is no longer on this ship. We don't know if it was destroyed or if it transported away. However, it appears that the changeling removed sixteen of our fellow crewmen before departing."

There was silence as he looked out at their faces. They weren't scared anymore. They were worried, of course, but they were also angry. "I intend to get them back," he said sternly, determination filling his voice. "Major Kira will be leading that investigation. It may be that our crewmen were transported to the planet's surface. If any of you have any expertise in twentieth century Earth history, please let the major know.

"Now, there has been a significant amount of damage to this ship," Sisko turned to the easiest part of the meeting. "Besides the parasitic devices that are affecting the diagnostic and navigational systems and external sensors, we have extensive physical damage to the warp and impulse drives, weapons, shields, the transporter, external communications. And of course, main power is still offline.

"You should all know by now that we are not in our own century. We can't return until this ship is functional and our crewmen are found. All remaining engineers will concentrate on repairs. We'll begin with the most essential systems and the systems we need to get our people back. See Commander Dax for your assignments once you're dismissed. Anyone with any engineering background may be called on to assist.

"Commander Worf will choose a team to help investigate the changeling. All other security officers will assist Major Kira in tracking down our missing crewmen. We will have a briefing of all security personnel on the bridge in one hour. Help out where you can until then.

"Everyone else remain behind, and we will work out shifts and rotations for your duty stations. Be prepared to do whatever is necessary. We've lost a lot of people and a lot of time here. It's going to take all of us, working overtime, to get back home." He waited a few seconds, looking from face to face. "Dismissed."

* * *

The truck finally jerked and began to move forward. The buildings rushed by in a gray blur. Bashir held his arm, rubbing it with his other hand to try and keep it warm.

"You're dressed strange," someone said, tapping him on the shoulder. "You're not Polish. Are you an American?"

Bashir didn't quite know how to answer. _So this is Poland_, he thought. He turned to see the wrinkled face of the woman who'd given her scarf to cover the bleeding man's wound. "No, I'm not American." He decided it was probably best to stick to his original excuse for his strange attire and hope that the matter would be dropped. "It's all I have."

"Can't be very warm," the woman said.

Others were observing, staring at his uniform. He could feel them watching. One woman reached out to touch the fabric on his remaining sleeve. "No," Bashir replied truthfully, "it isn't very warm."

"Are you a doctor?"

Bashir didn't even turn to see who had asked. He opened his mouth to answer, but then thought that it might not be a good idea to be a doctor just now. He couldn't do anything to help the man on the floor. Could he help anyone in the camps? Would that be interfering, changing the timeline?

"You act like a doctor," the voice answered itself.

"How did you get here?" came another question.

"It hardly matters," a dark-haired man retorted angrily. Everyone forgot Bashir's uniform and turned toward the man. He was young, about Bashir's age, with a defiant set to his eyes. Or was it angry resignation? Bashir couldn't tell which. "It doesn't matter how he got here. We're all leaving, remember?"

Julian almost wished for the questioning, because the man's words had sparked off a torrent of worried questions that no one could answer. Where were they being taken? What would happen there? Was it really a resettlement camp like the Germans had said? The young man raised his voice to be heard over them. "The Germans don't need us. They just want us gone."

"How will they get rid of us?" asked an old man. "They can't kill us all." The entire truck voiced its agreement. All except Bashir and the angry young man.

"I don't see anyone stopping them," the young man said.

Julian tried to focus his attention on the wounded man, but there was no more he could do for him now than he could have done five minutes ago. He didn't want to listen to the debate in the truck. He knew the answers. The Germans would try to kill them all, but yes, there was someone trying to stop them. The other side would win the war and liberate the camps. But that was not for several more years if he remembered right. And that would be an eternity for these people. Telling them that was out of the question.

They were still arguing. He wanted to tell the young man to be quiet. He only succeeded in scaring the others, but then the other side of himself told him it was good for them to know what was happening, that they should know the truth. But they weren't listening to the truth anyway. They couldn't accept it. They had to have hope.

It frustrated the young man, too, but before he could start again the truck jerked to a stop nearly toppling them all over. The wounded man groaned when someone stumbled and kicked his leg. Julian tried to tighten his tourniquet, but he didn't have the time.

"Everyone out!" the soldiers were shouting. "Into the train! Move!" They had opened the back of the truck and were pulling people out, throwing them onto the ground. A few didn't make it back to their feet in time. Others were thrown down on top of them. This only caused the soldiers to curse at them more for holding up the line.

Bashir and some of the others took the wounded man's shoulders and dragged him toward the open back of the truck. The angry man, who'd grown silent when the truck stopped, stooped over and picked up the man's feet. A younger man beside him tried to help.

"Why are you carrying that man?" one of the soldiers asked.

The soldier had asked so straightforwardly that Bashir thought he almost deserved an answer. "He is injured. He needs medical attention."

The soldier smiled then. It was a gracious smile, but evil. It sent a shiver up Bashir's spine that was not from the cold. He could see the amusement in the soldier's eyes. "Well, we'll make sure he gets special attention when you arrive at your destination."

Another soldier grabbed Julian's shoulder and pulled him backwards from the truck. He couldn't get his feet under him fast enough, and he fell hard onto the cold ground. The breath was knocked from his chest in a cloud of vapor, and his back stung from the impact. Still he forced himself to sit up. The wounded man had fallen out on top of him, covering his legs. The others, especially the angry young man, were quick to lift him up though. Bashir had managed to get to his knees when he one of the soldiers kicked him in the ribs, sending him back to the ground. _Damn the timeline_, he thought, and every nerve in him screamed at him to turn and kill that soldier with his bare hands. But he knew they would shoot him in an instant if he even made a move in that direction. So he stood as quickly as he could and moved toward the line of people climbing into the train.

"They would have killed you if you tried," the angry man was waiting for him.

Julian was still angry and his words came out sharply. "Do you read minds?"

"I don't need to." The man answered. "I can see it in your eyes." Strangely, now that they were out of the truck he didn't look angry anymore. Bashir couldn't think how to describe it. Apprehensive perhaps, and cynical, but the rage in his eyes was gone now. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Julian." There was no point in lying. He wouldn't be able to convince them he was Polish anyway.

"Hmph. You're not Polish. And you are dressed strange." He stepped up awkwardly into the train car and extended his hand to help Bashir up.

"What's yours?"

"Andrzej. Nice to meet you."

Once they were inside they each forgot the other's presence. Neither one spoke as they surveyed their new surroundings. _It's not much for comfort_, Bashir thought, trying to lighten his own mood just a little. It was a plain boxcar with no compartments or seats. It had four small windows near the ceiling but they were barred and lined with barbed wire. Little wisps of straw lay scattered on the otherwise bare, wooden floor.

The door abruptly slammed shut behind them, and they could hear the lock falling into place. The car grew dim, with the only light coming from the windows and the cracks between the slats of wood making up the walls and ceilings. Those windows and cracks also let the cold air in, but offered no good view of the world beyond. Julian was tall enough to see out the windows, but all that was visible were the top floors of a row of buildings and the dull, gray, winter sky.

No one made a sound as they waited for the reality of it to sink in. They stood like animals, afraid to move, eyeing the ceiling, the windows, the locked door, ready to pounce on any way out that showed itself. But none did. Andrzej was the first to speak, stating the obvious, "It's a cattle car."

"Do they think we're animals?" someone else challenged.

"Of course, they do," Andrzej replied, but without the anger he had before. In its place was a sense of wonder tempered with foreboding. "Haven't you heard their rhetoric? We're vermin, pests polluting their perfect race."

"Where will they take us?" a girl asked. She stood there shaking with her hands tucked under her arms. Her eyes pleaded for an answer, some reassurance.

No one answered and, again, everyone fell to silence. But they did begin to move. Each began to prowl the car. The first to act headed for the corners and sat down forlornly. Others, those with friends, huddled together in groups as they sat, using each other for added warmth. Slowly a murmur arose as each group settled down and tried to determine their destination.

Bashir remembered the wounded man and looked around for him. The older woman who had given up her head scarf was tending him in one corner. A few others were there as well, sitting close beside him as they tried to keep him warm. _It won't do any good_, Bashir thought and hated the callousness he felt in himself. He had felt the same way with Tain before he'd died of heart failure in the Jem'Hadar camp. Bashir had had nothing with which to help him, and the guards wouldn't give him access to any medical equipment. It was the same situation now. The man would die. They wouldn't be able to keep him warm enough. There were no heaters or blankets. And he was still losing blood. It was better for him, Bashir thought, to die here, quickly from shock, than to suffocate in the Nazis' gas.

Andrzej had seemed to have a good idea as to where they were going. He called Julian over, but Julian waved him off. "In a moment. I just want to look out." He needed a little time to himself, and it was impossible here. But the car wasn't even half full yet and the train wasn't moving. Bashir suspected that the Nazis would bring more, so it was better to try his communicator here with fewer witnesses. He walked to the window and looked out.

Bashir knew where they were headed, again perhaps not the exact location, but he knew what awaited them there: a camp, slavery, and very likely, death. He also knew that they'd lose everything they had, especially things of value. And his communicator was made of gold. It would probably be pocketed by some SS guard or taken back to Germany. Either way, it could not be taken intact. Bashir couldn't let the comm badge, with its advanced technology, end up in Nazi hands. But before he disabled it, he wanted to give it one last try.

Facing the window, with his back to everyone else, he slipped the communicator from the inside of his uniform and cupped it in his hands to muffle any sound. He held it up to his ear and pressed it, activating the communicator. But it made a sound reminiscent of electronic glass breaking and would not open a channel. Whoever sent him to this place, he reasoned, must have tampered with other systems as well.

That was it then. He'd have to disable the communicator now, while the car still wasn't full. If he waited, someone might see it. But the comm badge also housed his universal communicator, and he worried how he would explain to Andrzej why he could no longer speak Polish. He wished now that he hadn't said anything to anyone. It was going to be awkward now. If the people were suspicious before because of his appearance, they'd be doubly so when he ceased his ability to communicate with them.

But he didn't want to disable it just yet. Sisko might still be looking for him. Just because communications were out didn't mean the sensors would be. He decided to wait. He could disable it in the night while the others slept or break it with his boot heel before they got off the train at whatever camp they came to.

Bashir tucked the comm badge back into his uniform and zipped up the collar. The cold was really beginning to bother him. And with one sleeve torn off, it was even worse. The others at least had coats, as ragged as they were. But he hadn't planned on beaming down to the surface and definitely not into an unheated cattle car surrounded by Nazi SS soldiers.

* * *

Sisko waited for his senior officers--except Bashir--to take their seats on the bridge. "What did you find, Major?"

"The shuttle has been completely destroyed, Captain," Kira began, letting her frustration show. "There was nothing left of the changeling . . . or the transporter. There's enough large pieces that we might be able to get something back from the computer. But that's going to take a lot of work."

"I might be able to recover something," O'Brien suggested. "We might still get the transporter logs."

Transporter logs would help him find his people. But there were other things just as important that needed the chief's attention. "How many engineers do we have left?" Sisko asked.

O'Brien looked crest-fallen. "Three," he admitted, "including myself."

Sisko nodded wearily. "Dax can work on the shuttle. We need you elsewhere, Chief. It won't do much good if we can find our people without being able to talk to them or transport them back here."

"We can't scan outside for them?" Kira asked, but her eyes told him that she knew the answer already.

"No external sensors," Dax answered. "The changeling modified a probe to blow up in the launcher. The forward sensors are gone, literally."

"The parasites took out the rest though," O'Brien stated optimistically, "so once we have main power back online we should have the laterals at least."

"Well that's something," Sisko sighed. But something else was on his mind. That changeling would have been aboard the shuttle. There were no more incidents of sabotage since the shuttle exploded. No sign of the changeling aboard the ship, though they weren't taking chances. So the changeling either died in the blast--unlikely with the planet in transporter range--or beamed down to the planet. Which is just what the _Defiant_ had been trying to prevent in the first place. One changeling could still change the course of history. He looked up when the security officers began to file onto the bridge for their briefing.

One young woman with a red-trimmed uniform stepped to the front of them. She stood at attention. "Ensign Mylea Thomas, sir. I studied history, sir, before I went to the Academy. Mid-twentieth century is my specialty."

* * *

Andrzej was waiting for him at one end of the car. "This is my cousin, Vlád'a," he said, introducing the boy beside him. He was perhaps eighteen, by Bashir's estimate and definitely scared, though he was trying hard to hide it. "He doesn't speak Polish, but Czech is similar, so he understands. Vlád'a's family came here after the Nazis took Prague. Didn't do much good, though. Nazis came here next."

Bashir wished now that he'd gone ahead and disabled his communicator. If he spoke, Andrzej and Vlád'a would both understand him, each in their own languages. And that would take even more explaining. He wished he could set the translator for specific languages, but it just didn't work that way, at least not without proper equipment to alter it. It was designed for a completely different century, one where hundreds of different cultures interacted without the luxury of a single common language.

_Well_, Bashir thought to himself, _we'll just have to try not talking at all_. Smiling what he hoped was a reassuring smile, he held out his hand to Vlád'a. Vlád'a took it and gave it a half-hearted shake.

"Where _are_ you from, anyway?" Andrzej asked.

_Damn_, Bashir cursed silently. That was not a yes or no question. He would have to answer. He sincerely hoped that the answer he gave was similar enough in the two languages that neither one of the others would notice. Keeping it short, he simply said, "England." It wasn't exactly a lie.

Neither of his companions seemed to notice. But Andrzej's countenance actually dropped. "Then how did you get here?"

Bashir shrugged. That one was easier. Nothing to say. And he was still telling the truth.

"But if you're here," Vlád'a began, "then does that mean the Allies are losing?"

Bashir pretended that he didn't understand and looked to Andrzej for translation. It also gave him a little time to try and decide how best to answer. He couldn't give the future away, but telling them that they were not losing wouldn't change anything, except perhaps that it might give them a little bit more hope.

"Are the Allies losing the war?" Andrzej interpreted Vlád'a's question.

"No," Bashir stated flatly. Since both Polish and Czech shared the same Slavic base, he was sure he could get away with something as simple as that. But he was worried that the conversation would only continue and become riskier by the minute.

Andrzej only nodded though and stared sadly at the ground. "But they're still not in Bialystok. There's no one to stop the Nazis from taking us. I've heard, from others, about a place. A place where they take Jews."

Bashir half wished that he would stop there, for Vlád'a's sake. He was scared enough. But he was glad for the change of topic away from himself. He couldn't keep it up. They'd eventually notice that something wasn't quite right about him.

As they waited there the light began to fade. And with the light went what little heat they'd had. Andrzej and his cousin had stopped asking questions and turned to huddle together for warmth. Vlád'a, in particular, seemed very near panic. Andrzej, who'd earlier been reminding everyone of their fate, was now consoling his cousin, reassuring him that if they were strong and had faith, they would get though it. They would survive. Vlád'a didn't seem so sure.

Julian, for his part, didn't feel too sure either. He knew he was in excellent health and stood a good chance of surviving. But he was also aware that it was only a chance. The Nazis had set out to annihilate the Jewish population in Europe. Whether he lived or died depended as much on their whims as it did on his health going in. And his new companions were not nearly as healthy. It would be even harder for them. _At least they have each other_, he thought.

Julian had no one. That was more apparent to him in the cold. He thought about that time when the _Defiant_ had been damaged by the Jem'Hadar. He and Jadzia had been trapped in a turbolift. It had been this cold then. Probably colder. But they'd held each other, sharing whatever warmth they'd had. It was nice that it was Jadzia that time, but now he would settle for just about anyone.

Starfleet uniforms were great, on the whole, and very adaptable. But they couldn't adapt to extremes of cold or heat. And it was downright frigid in the railroad car. His breath came out in a puff of vapor when he exhaled, and it was hard to keep from shivering. He found that if he relaxed his whole body, the shaking would stop. But he couldn't keep that still. He envied the others their coats and rags, no matter how tattered they were. At least they were something.

He could feel his comm badge against his chest, and he wondered if he should try again to contact the ship. Surely, by now, they would've realized he was missing. Of course, he knew there was most likely sabotage, and many systems, like communications, might be out. And even if they did find him, he wasn't sure how he'd get out of this. Locked in this cattle car, there was no way to transport him out without being seen. _Maybe they realized that_, he thought. _Maybe that's why they haven't called_. It was not a comforting thought, but he could understand.

He thought that perhaps he should go ahead and disable his communicator. Actually he wasn't quite sure how to do it. He didn't have any tools with him. Simply breaking it was out of the question, at least for now. The car was too quiet. Someone would hear. And he still didn't know what to do about Andrzej.

_Someone had been inside the stasis unit_, he said to himself as his thoughts returned to the ship. _But who?_ It didn't make any sense. Unless . . . unless someone did not want that person to be found. The readouts were tampered with so that he wouldn't know the drawer was activated. He thought about the strange Klingon vessel, the vial of blood that was not quite right. _A changeling!_ The person in the drawer was the person the changeling replaced. Was it Whaley? It was her blood. _But that's just it_, he thought. _It was_ her _blood_. It was human blood. How did the changeling manage that?

It was growing darker still, but Julian thought he glimpsed new snow falling outside the windows. His stomach growled and he realized he hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast on the _Defiant_. But then he thought about the others in the car. They'd probably had even less to eat. All of them had looked thin and malnourished.

One thing he did worry about though was frostbite. His ears had long since grown numb, and he was losing the feeling in his hands, even though they were tucked beneath his arms. People were starting to lay down on the floor and go to sleep. Julian didn't think he could. He was just too cold. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the hard wooden wall. _Risa_, he thought, _lounging on the beach with the sun warming my skin_. It didn't help. He was still freezing.

* * *

Kira stood up and stretched her arms behind her back, trying to work out the kink that had settled on her spine. She and a few others had been sifting through the wreckage of the shuttle, trying to find traces of . . . well, just about anything. Her back still ached. _I may have to have Julian look at it_, she thought and then stopped herself. Julian wasn't there. Through the force-field she could see the stars and Earth's one moon past the outer hull, but not the sun. Night. She hoped he was down on that planet somewhere and not lost among those stars.

As much as he'd annoyed her at times--and he really did annoy her at times--Kira had to admit that the doctor had grown on her. He could be exasperating, egotistical, and completely tactless, but he could also be like he was when Bareil died: dedicated, caring, and sensitive. He could be sweet. At first, she had hated that. She hadn't seen much sweet on Bajor most of her life. It was pointless and got in the way. Sweet could get you killed.

Now, he reminded her of what she could have been, what a million Bajorans could have been, if they'd been able to grow up in peace and freedom. He had what they had lost, what the Cardassians had taken from them. He still had it, even after the Jem'Hadar internment. It had hardened him, she could tell, but it hadn't completely erased that quality he had. And she didn't want him to lose it now.

She knelt down amid the debris again and scanned it with her tricorder. Bashir was not the only one missing.

* * *

A soft murmur of whispering voices found its way to Julian's ears from across the car where the wounded man had been. They grew louder and his translator was able to translate what the voices were saying. "He's dead." At that point, all voices stopped. Even those that had been talking among themselves, not about the man at all, froze in their conversations. Bashir's first thought was to rush over there and check for a pulse, but his fingers were numb. He wouldn't even be able to feel it. He couldn't bring himself to move his legs from their curled-up position. And he knew there was still nothing he could do for the man.

Finally, someone spoke up. "What will we do with him? The door is locked. We can't put him out."

In the darkness, Bashir could make out a form still moving over the man. As he watched a gust of cold air blew in through the windows, and a light dusting of snow landed on his left knee. It melted almost as soon as he saw it. He didn't want to see it. It only made it feel worse. He pulled his legs in closer to his chest and lowered his head onto his knees.

"Not for me," he heard the old woman say. "For him."

"Why him?" someone argued. "He's a stranger. He hasn't had to live in the ghetto."

"He's a Jew," she countered. "He's in this as much as we are. Besides he has nothing. You have a coat."

Bashir was so lost in the cold that he didn't realize they were talking about him until the woman tapped lightly on his knee. "Put these on," she said, when Bashir lifted his head. "You'll be warmer."

He looked past her to the corner where the man had been. He could see him there, even in the dim light. The white flesh of the man's torso stood out against the dark walls. Trying not to shake, Bashir reached out and took the clothes that she offered. They were dirty and they smelled bad, but he didn't mind. The woman was right. They would keep him warmer. He opened his mouth to thank her, but remembered that he probably shouldn't speak. His lips were numb anyway. He just nodded to her and hugged the clothes to his chest. Her mouth curled up into a little smile, and Bashir thought as she walked away, that she must be someone's grandmother. She just had that quality about her.

Setting the clothes beside him, Julian began to sort through them. It wasn't easy without light, but he found several shirts. The man had been wearing layers against the cold. But Julian thought it odd that there were no pants. So he took one of shirts, the thickest one, and wrapped it around his legs, tucking it around tight. Then he took the others and put them on, one by one. They were just a bit short in the sleeves and too big everywhere else. But that hardly mattered. Each one felt like an extra barrier against the pervasive cold.

There was a coat, too, that the woman had put at his feet. It was as old and torn as Andrzej's, but it felt so much warmer to slip it on. He wrapped that around his torso and fumbled around for the pockets. He found them and plunged his hands inside. Almost immediately, his hands began to ache. It was a normal reaction, he knew, and a good sign, but he closed his eyes again to wait for it to end.

* * *

The maneuvering thrusters worked. _Well, that's one thing_, Sisko thought wryly. _At least it will lessen our chances of being seen._ Luckily 1943 was too early for humans to be exploring space. But they did have telescopes. It was better, therefore to stay on the lighted side of the planet. But using the thrusters now, while they were on the night side, would only make them more visible. They would have to stay put until dawn. Then they'd be safe to move again before the next nightfall.

Sisko worried about his people. External sensors were still out, but he'd had every available officer check out every viewport to see if anyone could be seen. He'd been relieved when none of the missing crewmen had been spotted. It was still possible that they were transported into space, but beyond what was visible to the naked eye. Sisko decided he'd rather concentrate on the possibility that they'd been transported to the planet.

Sisko sighed and checked the time. It had been nearly ten hours since Bashir's disappearance when they first began to realize that they'd had a saboteur on board the ship. Ten hours. Too much could go wrong in that time. None of the crewmen were prepared to beam down to the planet in this time. Just as when Bashir, Dax, and he had accidentally transported into the twenty-first century during the Bell riots in San Francisco, their uniforms would cause them to stand out when what they really needed to do was blend in. Every hour they spent in that time carried more danger, for themselves and for history. Some little, seemingly insignificant action could change the timeline.

An even worse thought was that the changeling was probably down there, too. It would be nearly impossible to find, even with sensors. If it was portraying a human, the sensors would only register a human, among billions of other humans. It made Sisko angry to think that it had already been walking around on his ship, impersonating not one but two members of his crew for the last week.

Sisko stood up and stretched his back. O'Brien had protested at first when he had told him that he would be working on the transporter. The Irishman could be quite protective of this ship. But one quick reminder of who'd designed this ship in the first place had quieted the chief down. Sisko hadn't expected nearly the amount of damage he'd found though. The platform had been physically torn up and key parts removed. The phase transition coils were missing and the targeting scanners, since they were linked to the external sensor arrays, were useless as well.

Deciding that he needed to stretch his legs, Sisko started walking around the room. It was a small room, so it didn't take long to reach the back wall. Most of the screens and readouts here were blank, since a non-functional transporter was not an essential system, but Sisko couldn't help but feel a little claustrophobic without the usual sounds and lights and the shining stars from a viewport.

Without thinking, he had let his eyes drift down to the floor, following the line of the wall where it met the carpet. He was tired. The remaining crew, including the senior staff, was pulling double-shifts now, keeping the posts covered and effecting repairs, as well as running investigations. Kira had returned to her quarters nearly two hours ago to get some sleep before she started back on her next two shifts. In another two, Sisko would be free to rest. But he wasn't sure he wanted to rest. He wanted to get his ship running again so he could find his crew and take them home.

Something caught his eye. There was a reddish-brown spot on the floor below the transporter controls. Sisko knelt down to get a better look at it, but there wasn't enough light to see. He almost called for lights, but remembered that wouldn't help. Main power was still offline. Emergency lights were all they had to work with. Forgetting the lights, he returned to the platform where he'd been working and retrieved the tricorder that lay there with the other tools. He already had a sinking suspicion what that spot was.

He knelt again beside the spot and scanned the area with the tricorder. Just as he thought. It was blood. Human blood. Sisko made a mental note to check the duty roster. His optimism--what little he'd had--was beginning to slip away. Maybe he wouldn't find his crewmen alive at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Four**

When Bashir woke again, gray dawn was just beginning to seep in between the boards of the walls. It was no warmer, but he could feel his hands again. He felt something sharp in one of the pockets but hesitated at removing his hand. His toes were stubbornly still numb, and he still shivered with the cold. Julian squinted around the car, trying to make out the forms of the other people. It appeared they were all still sleeping.

It was a good time, as good as he would get. No one would see him disable the communicator. He hated to do it. _One last try_, he thought. He pulled his hand from the warm wool pocket and dug through the layers of his clothes until he felt the hard metal of the comm badge. Without removing it, he pressed it. The clothes would help to muffle any sound. The same sick chirp greeted him. No communication with the ship.

Bashir sighed and removed his other hand. It held the sharp thing he had felt. He held it up to the dim light. A screwdriver, small like a jeweler might use, only slightly larger. It would work. He pulled out the comm badge and began to pry off its face.

Within a few minutes, it was a complete wreck. It wouldn't chirp. The translator wouldn't translate. And, unfortunately, now no one on the ship would be able to track him by its signal. He was cut off.

Then a thought occurred to him, and he pulled out the screwdriver again. Someone might find his comm badge eventually. He could leave a message there. English would be too recognizable, so he decided on Cardassian. He silently thanked Garak for all the Cardassian literature he had given him to read over the years. The symbols weren't as intricate as Bajoran and any of the senior officers would be able to read them.

He was not quite sure what to write though. He had to keep it short. There was only so much space on the face of a comm badge, but also, he just didn't know enough. He knew he was in Poland on a train bound for somewhere. He assumed it would be a camp, but there were hundreds of those, if he remembered correctly. Finally he just decided on "Poland" and "Arrested." There wasn't room for much more. He scratched symbols that were nearest to the syllables of his message into the face and then hurriedly put the screwdriver away. Then, as an afterthought, he added a set of numbers. Sisko would recognize it as a stardate.

A commotion was growing outside the train. Bashir could hear footsteps. Hundreds of them. And yelling. German again. He could no longer understand it, but he recognized it just as well. The people around him began to stir. Julian held his broken comm badge to the light. He shined its surface on his coat sleeve and looked at it one last time. Its shiny surface reflected back his own tired face and worried eyes. Folding it into his fist, he shoved it beneath some of the loose straw near his feet and tried to put it out of his mind.

The commotion was louder, and the other people were now fully awake. Andrzej said something to him, but it was all a jumble. He could no longer understand Polish. Bashir looked at him. He didn't seem to expect an answer. He nodded and Julian nodded back. Andrzej turned to talk to his cousin.

And then the noise was right outside the door. Julian heard the clatter of the lock, and then the door was thrust open. Light from outside poured in hurting Bashir's eyes. He blinked it away and stood up. There were people at the door. And a soldier. He pushed the people inside with curses and screams.

Julian could do little but stare as the people climbed aboard. Beyond the ones scrambling to get in were still many more, clutching their spouses and children and looking around with fearful eyes as they waited their turn. The car filled up quickly, but still the people were pushed aboard. He couldn't count them all, but Julian was sure that perhaps a hundred had already climbed inside.

Someone approached the soldier. It was the old woman, the one who had given him the clothes. "_Wir haben hier noch einen Toten! Helfen Sie mir, ihn herauszutragen!_" She gestured toward the corner. _She must be asking about the dead man_, Julian decided.

"_Der kann mir gestohlen bleiben!_" the soldier smirked as he pushed her away with the butt of his gun.

The people kept coming and they pressed close. Julian was glad that he'd been staying near the window. Andrzej pushed his way past some of them and pulled his cousin along with him until they were beside Bashir at the wall. This time he said nothing. No sarcastic remarks foretelling of their doom, no defiant words. Bashir could see the fear in his eyes as well.

When the door was pulled shut again, the car was filled from wall to wall with people. Bashir was pressed at every side. He was still tired and would've liked to sit down again, but there just wasn't any room. He was thankful for his height which allowed him to see over most of the heads around him. He could see out the small window as well, where icicles hung like crystal daggers. His breath blew out in wisps of vapor, but already the car was beginning to get a little warmer from all the people.

Bashir expected the train to start moving right away, but it stayed still. The air was filled with murmuring, fearful voices. Beyond them, he could still hear the commotion and shouting, doors being slammed and locked. They were still loading the train. He tried to remember how many cars he'd seen when the truck had pulled up the day before, but he hadn't really paid attention.

His stomach growled painfully, and he tried to ignore it by staring out the window at the old buildings in this Polish city. He wished he were certain of its name. Bialystok, he assumed, from what Andrzej had said earlier. Not that it would make any difference. He tried not to think about the _Defiant_ and his home on the station, instead he concentrated on the architecture of the buildings he could see. Some of it would have been quite beautiful, he imagined, in a different time.

* * *

Major Kira Nerys sat in the captain's chair of the _Defiant_ cradling the cup of raktajino that she'd carried up from the mess hall in her hands. The mess hall replicators were the only ones that worked. She had woken up for duty two hours ago and checked the status of the repairs. It had been decided the night before--was it really night? It was hard to tell anymore with the change in time--that sensors were their main concern, followed by main power. The forward sensors were literally gone, as Dax had put it, and it would take at least the better part of the day to get main power back up and running. Nearly half the plasma relay was out of commission.

Kira sipped her coffee and tried to ignore the frustration she was feeling. She was in charge of looking for the missing crew members, but there was still no way for her to carry out that task. The sensors were still out. The transporter logs from the shuttle--what they could get of them--were wiped. Dax was working on unscrambling any recurring data fragments, but that could take hours, or days, considering the shape the shuttle was in. And communications was no good either. They were all still just as lost as they had been the night before.

* * *

By the time the train began to move, the sun was almost straight over head. _Noon_, Bashir thought. How long had he been gone? It was hard to tell. There had been a time change when he was beamed down to the planet. It was late evening on the _Defiant_, but it had still seemed early here, with the sun just beginning to go down. Now it was noon. So that was the better part of a day, at least.

The train jostled and moved slowly past the buildings, bringing new ones into view. Bashir's legs ached from standing still for so long. There really was no room to sit, but some of the other people had managed to crouch down a bit. Andrzej and Vlád'a were crouched beside him. Vlád'a had fallen asleep on Andrzej's shoulder.

Leaning on the wall, and trying not to push too hard at the people around him, Bashir slowly slid down as best as he could. Andrzej gave him a quick, small smile and sighed. "_Jedziemy na_ _południe_," he said.

Bashir didn't understand a word. _Well, this is it_, he thought. He took a breath and was about to speak but hesitated. He had a thought. It was worth a chance. "Andrzej," he began, pronouncing the name very carefully, "_parlez-vous français?_"

Andrzej regarded him confusedly for just a moment. But then he nodded. "_Oui, un peu_."

Bashir sighed, much relieved. "Good," he said, in English, then he switched to French. "_Mon français est meilleur que mon--_" He stopped. He had never had to think how to say Polish in French. "_Polsky_," he finished and gave a sheepish smile, hoping that he'd at least come close with the word.

Andrzej smiled too, but he didn't repeat his earlier statement. He sighed heavily and looked up at the ceiling above them. His smile disappeared and he whispered, "_Nous allons mourir_."

It took a moment for Julian to get used to hearing French again. He hadn't used it for over five years. _We're going to die_, he thought. _That's what he said_. He didn't want to hear that, even though he knew there was a high probability that it was true. He didn't want Andrzej to think it. "_Non_," he told Andrzej, touching him lightly on the shoulder. "_Nous allons vivre. Vous et moi et_ _Vlád'a. Ensemble._ We're going to live," he repeated, more for himself than for his companion.

Andrzej looked over at him and shook his head, but Bashir saw some hope in his eyes. "_Non_," he said, "_nous allons mourir de faim. Nous n'avons pas de--_" He stopped looking for the word. "_Jedzenia_," he said finally.

Bashir couldn't understand the last word since Andrzej had spoken it in Polish, but he could easily guess at what it was from the rest of his statement. _Food. We don't have food_. As if in response, Bashir's stomach rumbled again. He look around. Where he could see, he saw bags and suitcases. The people that had been put on the train in the morning had brought bags with them. Andrzej and Vlád'a had been arrested the night before. They hadn't had time to prepare provisions. They'd probably been taken off the street just like himself.

The train was moving very slowly. _Even for this time_, Julian thought._ There must be too much weight on it, if they packed all the cars as full as this one._ In all truth, Bashir didn't expect they'd find much food once they reached their destination, but they didn't have a chance on the train, unless the new people shared. They'd all looked hungry and each of their bags was small. They wouldn't share with strangers. They would feed their own families. He couldn't really blame them.

_A replicator would be nice right about now_, he thought ruefully. He was beginning to get cold again, so he wrapped the extra shirt tightly around his legs and stuck his hands back down in the pockets of his coat.

* * *

Ensign Mylea Thomas took a moment to stretch her fingers and pop her knuckles. Then she plunged her hands right back into the circuits and conduits before her. She only had the minimum training in engineering that went along with being a pilot, but with a careful schematic beside her, she could make progress. With only three engineers on board the ship, everyone was having to pitch in. It wasn't the most exciting work, but it was necessary. As much as Mylea loved history, she really had no desire to spend the rest of her life in it, orbiting the planet in a wrecked starship.

She wouldn't have minded visiting it though. History, that is. There was quite a time going on down there. World War II. It was one of the most fascinating eras for her. Mainly because it scared her, horrified her. She'd always been drawn to things like that. Wieland had jokingly called her morbid. Maybe he was right.

She hoped he was alright. He was one of the missing. Like the others, she hoped he was down on the planet. And she hoped he wasn't. There were too many places to get into trouble. He was German. There was a war going on to stop the Germans. Nearly the whole world was fighting them and their few allies. It was a dangerous place to be. But it was the only place to be right now besides the ship. And he was not on the ship.

As soon as the sensors were operational, they'd be searching for him and the other missing crewmembers, so Mylea was happy enough to be helping to fix them. Chief O'Brien was pretty sure the forward sensor array was hopeless, but with the laterals they would be able to scan at least a part of the planet's surface.

A wire snapped and shocked the tip of her finger causing her to flinch back. She shook her hand a few times while drawing a quick breath in through her teeth. The tingling faded and she looked at her hand. There was no wound. _Just a mild shock_, she thought, but she would try to be more careful in the future.

* * *

The sun was dropping again and with it the already low temperature. The train moved slowly and noisily along the tracks, its clanking and clamoring nearly drowning out the murmur of its inhabitants. There was not a lot of talking, except from the children. But Bashir was even surprised by them. They were pretty calm, all told. They were hungry, but only the littlest among them really complained. _They've been doing this for awhile_, he thought,_ in the city._ _They must have been rationing there as well._ It made him sad to think of the children. Childhood was supposed to be a happy time. He knew that was not always the case, but no child should have to live through this, to die like this. He knew--how could he not know?--that most of them would not survive.

The ache in his own stomach was becoming harder to ignore with each hour. At least they seemed like hours to him. He couldn't really tell. But it was sunset again. He had been there for at least a full day. He hadn't thought he'd be on the train that long. He suddenly wished he hadn't disabled his communicator just yet. He could've tried to contact the ship again. They might have communications fixed. Or sensors.

But the hope faded as fast as it had come. What could they do about it? They couldn't just beam him out of the train. He took his hands out of his pockets to rub his shoulders. He couldn't feel his feet anymore either, and wasn't sure it was from the cold. He'd been crouched in this cramped position for far too many hours. He needed to stretch and move around.

Slowly, bracing his back against the wall, he inched himself up to his full height. He still couldn't move around, but he could feel the blood returning to his feet. About half the others in the train were standing up, but most were leaning on each other, half-sitting and talking quietly among themselves. Occasionally someone shuffled and pushed to get to the corner by the door. A bucket had been set up there for people to relieve themselves. He could smell it all the way on the opposite side of the train. Every once in awhile they would dump it out the crack beneath the door.

Bashir thought about his time in ore-processing on Terok Nor when he and Kira had accidentally ended up in a parallel universe. It had been hot and dirty and hard work. But he would trade it for this in an instant. On top of the cold, the foul, stale air, and the hunger, was the unknown. The only thing he really knew about where they were going was that most of the people who arrived were killed.

One thing was the same as that ore-processing center. He was thirsty. He hadn't had anything to drink in over a day, and his mouth was dry and sticky. But he couldn't ask any of the people around him for water. They barely had enough for themselves. Looking out the window, he remembered the icicles. It wasn't the best way to get water, but as a doctor, he knew it was more dangerous not to have water at all. Reaching out into the frigid air beyond the train, careful to avoid the barbs on the wire that crisscrossed the window in a tangle, he snapped one of the icicles off.

But then he was in a predicament. He couldn't pull his hand back through the wire without dropping the icicle, and there were too few of them left on the window to risk that. Using his other hand then, he pushed his fingers through on top of his other wrist. Then he very carefully tipped the icicle up until it lay along his extended hand and touched the fingers of the other. Very slowly, then, he pushed the icicle back toward his other fingers until he could hold the tip of it and pull it through on its own. But in his haste once he had the icicle, he scraped his first hand extricating it from the wire. There was a trickle of blood, but it didn't hurt much. His hand was nearly numb already.

It was a fairly large icicle, and he knew Andrzej and Vlád'a would be thirsty too, so he broke off a piece of it and then crouched back down. Vlád'a was awake by now, watching him, as Andrzej slept against him. Bashir handed the larger piece of the icicle to the boy, gesturing that he should share it with his cousin. Vlád'a snatched it from him quickly and snapped the piece in two, shaking his cousin's shoulder with his elbow before he hungrily took a bite of his piece. "_Děkuji_," he said, still crunching the ice.

Bashir couldn't understand what he said, but he was sure it was "thank you." He noticed his own piece was beginning to melt in his hand, so he followed Vlád'a's example. It felt good to eat something again, even if it was only frozen water. The piece was gone quickly though.

* * *

A hand touched his shoulder. "Benjamin," Dax's scolding voice came from behind him, "is that all you're eating?" She released his shoulder and walked around the table to sit across from him. Anyone else would probably see the same serene expression she carried most of the time, but he could see Curzon in her eyes, and just a hint of a mother's worry, rebuking him for not taking better care of himself.

"I'm not very hungry, Old Man," he said. He looked down at his plate again and picked at his food.

Dax just gave him a small smile and reached across the table to touch his hand. Then she drew her hand back to cup the raktajino that sat in front of her on the table.

"Any luck with the transporter logs?" Sisko asked, taking another small bite as she watched.

"Not just yet," she answered unhappily. "We lost parts of the shuttle before the emergency force fields came down, too."

Suddenly the lights in the mess hall became brighter.

"Main power!" they said together and smiled.

Sisko forgot his food and slapped his comm badge. "Sisko to O'Brien."

"O'Brien, sir."

"We've got main power?"

"That we do, sir, but we'll still need to regulate our power flows. Keep things rationed a bit."

"I'll work on it, Chief," Dax volunteered.

Sisko was not quite through yet. "What about sensors, Chief?" he asked hopefully.

"Well," the chief hesitated, "they were more damaged than I first thought, but we should be able to get limited use of the port lateral sensor array."

"That's still good news, Chief. Keep it up. Sisko out." He turned to Dax with a brightness in his eyes that had been gone for more than a day. "Old Man," he grinned, "let's see if we can't find our people."

Kira was already on the bridge when they arrived. She was standing leaning over one of the consoles. She looked up when she heard the turbolift doors open. "We're able to scan about two percent of the planet's surface at a time. It's not much, but it's a start. This is your planet, Captain, where do you suppose we should begin?"

"Start with the most heavily populated areas," Sisko replied, making a guess. Where would a changeling beam his people anyway? "If they're down there we should be able to get a signal from their comm badges."

Kira nodded. "Right, sir." She took her seat.

The turbolift doors opened again, allowing Worf to enter the bridge. His face was still stern, despite their small victory over main power and port lateral sensors. He walked stiffly to Sisko's chair and stood at attention.

"What do you have to report, Commander?" Sisko asked.

"Beyond the damage to the ship," the Klingon began, "we have found little evidence of the changeling. But what we have found is quite conclusive." He glanced at the PADD he was holding and began his report. "Dr. Bashir's medical logs indicate the anomalous blood sample taken when the crew was blood-screened before the ship departed Deep Space Nine. It belonged to Lieutenant Julie Whaley, whom the nurse identified as a changeling. His further logs indicate that the samples had been destroyed, against his orders by that same nurse. The computer shows an equivalent amount of organic material destroyed in sickbay at a time index three minutes after the power drain began in the stasis unit."

"So that's when the shapeshifter replaced Nurse Hausmann," Sisko interrupted. He couldn't help but notice that Worf seemed comfortable with this investigative role. _Back in his element, I suppose,_ Sisko thought.

Worf seemed annoyed by the interruption and rolled his eyes a fraction of the way up to the ceiling. Hardly noticeable. "Yes, sir. Nurse Hausmann," he continued, stressing the name to indicate that it was not Nurse Hausmann at all, "continued to report for her duty shift until just before we reached this sector. We also noted another sizable amount of organic matter disposed of during the second night."

That caught Sisko's attention. "How much organic matter?"

"That equivalent to one human female's arm," the Klingon answered with satisfaction and handed the PADD he had been holding to Sisko. The computer had managed to reconstruct a schematic of the organic material. The changeling, for once, had slipped up. "Lieutenant Whaley's arm," Worf added for emphasis.

Sisko heard a sharp breath drawn behind him. Dax was looking over his shoulder at the PADD. "That explains a lot, Benjamin."

"The blood in the sample," Sisko finished for her, "was human. It was from Whaley's own arm. The changeling destroyed the samples, because it thought Bashir would figure it out if he had them to study." Another thought struck him then. "He wasn't alone."

"Sir?" Worf asked, not understanding.

Sisko looked up at him and then looked to Dax. "Doctor Bashir. He wasn't alone. Someone notified us that he'd been transported. No one notified us of the others." He stood up and quickly walked to the Engineering station. The lieutenant sitting there looked up at him over his shoulder. "Can we find out where the missing crewmembers were when they were last on this ship?"

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said, turning back to his console. "Shouldn't be too much of a problem."

Worf and the others waited silently. Worf looked guilty, like he was disappointed in himself for not finding out that information before. But then it was hard to tell with him. Most of the time, he hid his emotions well.

"Got it, sir," the lieutenant said.

"On screen."

The large central viewscreen immediately came to life, displaying a diagram of the ship in two planes, from the side and from above. Thirty-four points of yellow light marked the location of each missing crewman twice, once on each plane. Just looking at the overhead schematic, fourteen of them were largely grouped together. One of the others was in the transporter room. One was in sickbay at least a deck above all the others. Bashir. The other was in the shuttle bay. The changeling.

"Show me a time index," Sisko ordered quietly, still watching the screen. "Put them up in the order they disappeared."

The points of light winked out and then began to return, beginning with the transporter room and two small, yellow dots in Engineering. They expanded outward from there. Just at the end the light in sickbay popped on and then the shuttlebay. "Show me other life signs at that time on the ship, in a different color."

The screen changed again, the schematics being filled in by small red dots reaching into nearly all areas of the ship. Forty-seven red and yellow dots per schematic. The full crew compliment. Still, from Engineering out, there was a circle of yellow dots without a single red to break them up. Only Bashir and the changeling and the transporter stood apart, yellows surrounded by all red.

"The changeling started here," Sisko said, pointing the transporter room. "And it transported all the crewman stationed in this area, and then fanned out from there. The shuttle's transporter capacity is two. Why did it skip from here," he pointed to the last two dots to show up before the one in sickbay, "and then jump to sickbay and only take Bashir? There were other people there." He looked back at his officers. Kira was watching him now, too, and he couldn't help but notice the concern in her eyes and wrinkled brow.

"Revenge," Worf stated bluntly. "It was angry about the blood samples, or the reprimand."

Sisko raised his eyebrows questioningly, hoping Worf would take the hint. He did. "His medical logs recorded a reprimand to Nurse Hausmann--by this time the changeling--for destroying the blood samples against his orders."

Sisko remembered the blood he'd found in the transporter room. It worried him even more. The changeling had likely killed that crewman in the transporter room, someone it probably had little or no contact with. His hopes of finding Bashir and the others alive plummeted again.

Everyone was too quiet, too still, watching him. "Any luck yet, Major?" Sisko asked returning to his seat.

"Not yet, sir. I've begun the search in the southeast section of the largest continent. The most populated, as you suggested, but we're moving out of sensor range there."

"We'll have to keep to daylight until the cloak is fixed. Scan wherever you can."

* * *

Looking up through the wire that covered the window, Julian Bashir could see the stars. They were familiar to him, like old friends, dreams he'd had long ago standing on the veranda of his family's house in Knightsbridge. He had wanted to be a part of those stars, to reach as far as he could go. These stars were like his neighborhood.

Somewhere up there was the _Defiant_. Somewhere far beyond that was Bajor and a space station that would not be built for four hundred years. Julian Bashir drifted off to sleep not knowing if he'd ever see that station again.

* * *

It was mid-day again and the train had been stopped for nearly two hours. But the doors never opened, not to give the prisoners food or water or even to remove the dead. Julian Bashir couldn't be sure just how many dead there were. There were just too many people packed into the car. He couldn't see where one ended and the next began. All the ragged coats and dirty faces blended in together in one large mass of misery.

And this day was colder than the last. Out the window he could see only a white landscape of snow on the hills and trees. They'd stopped in the middle of nowhere, quite literally, and for apparently no reason at all. He could hear voices from the other cars, yelling, pleading for just a little water or food. He could hear the same voices in his own car, but the Germans didn't seem to care. They didn't even come within sight, and they didn't yell back.

"_Peut-être, ils sont partis_," Andrzej said, standing up beside him.

Bashir regarded his companion for a moment. His face was grave. He didn't seem optimistic. And Bashir thought it unlikely that the Germans would just leave them on the train to die as Andrzej had suggested. If nothing else, they probably needed the train. Andrzej laughed a small hollow laugh when Julian told him that.

"_Probablement_," he sighed.

A shot rang out in the crisp winter air, and Julian turned back to the window, craning his neck to try and see what had happened. Around him the noise had both risen and fallen at the same time, with some people driven to panic and others terrified into silence. There on the snow, at the very edge of his vision, was a small brown blob. A swatch of red slowly spread beneath it. Bashir shook his head sadly and looked back to Andrzej. "_Ils ne sont pas partis,_" he whispered.

It was at least another hour before the train moved again. Twice more they'd heard such shots, and Bashir wondered why anyone else would've tried to escape, knowing that the Germans were ready to shoot them down. Part of his mind though was more interested in just how they escaped off the train in the first place. He was starting to think that almost anything was better than this.

Only one icicle remained in the window, and Bashir hoped they would reach wherever they were going before that one was gone. He didn't think he'd ever been this hungry. Three days without food. Some of the things he'd seen Quark eat were beginning to sound pretty good.

* * *

Sisko looked up at the screen. A map of the continents of Earth was displayed there, with about one fourth of their surfaces highlighted. The highlighted area extended almost in a single band reaching from left to right on a line even with China, just north of the Tropic of Cancer.

"That's what you've scanned," Sisko said.

"Yes, sir," Kira replied. "We haven't detected any of the missing crewmen yet. We'll need to move the ship so that we can scan some other areas."

Sisko studied the map again and began to determine a new heading. But, of course, navigation had gone out when everything else had. He glanced at the helm. Ensign Thomas looked back at him, waiting for his orders. At least she was from Earth. She would be familiar with the geography.

"Ensign, we're going to have to pilot this ship manually using only maneuvering thrusters. Use the port sensor readings to determine a heading. Let's go just north of the area already scanned. Major, sensors on screen."

Both acknowledged his orders. In a moment the main viewscreen changed to show a partial picture of the earth's surface surrounded by blackness. There was no way to identify the area. Thomas had turned back to her console, fingers playing over the controls. She watched her readings carefully for a few minutes. Sisko didn't pressure her. With only partial use of one of the lateral sensor arrays, it wasn't easy to see where they were, let alone where they were going.

"Computer," Sisko called, "cross-reference sensor readings with known geography of Earth in the mid-twentieth century. Enhance image."

"Working," the computer droned. Then the rest of the viewscreen filled in with a more detailed picture of the same area of Earth, but this time showing more of the surrounding areas. The land mass now on the viewscreen was easily identifiable as Spain.

"Thank you, sir," Thomas said. "I've got it."

"Engage thrusters." Sisko waited and then the ship began to move, altering the view on the screen until they were looking at the western coast of France. Sisko would've liked to head east from there, over the continent of Europe, but that was not the way the planet revolved and they couldn't use the thrusters continuously. The last patch of land disappeared from the viewscreen as the _Defiant_ headed out over the Atlantic Ocean.

"Major, I don't expect we'll find much there," Sisko said. "What's our range for scanning the surrounding space?"

"Less than five hundred kilometers," she replied.

"Well, it's better than no sensors at all." Sisko really didn't want her to find anything on those particular scans. But he had to know. "Let's see if they're out there."

* * *

Julian Bashir was lost in black sleep when the train began to slow down. Whispers began to spread throughout the train, emanating from the watch, a few men posted at cracks and windows to keep a look out. People started stirring. Bashir heard them, but didn't want to wake up. He was not comfortable or warm, and he was still very hungry, but with his eyes closed and his head bowed and sleep beckoning him back, he could almost forget some of that.

But then the train stopped. Everyone became completely silent. Bashir opened his eyes and turned to see Andrzej and Vlád'a, their eyes wide and their faces full of apprehension. Julian wanted to ask where they were, but was afraid to break the silence in the car. Bright light filtered in through the cracks in the boards on the walls. There was the sound of movement outside.

Suddenly the door was flung open, pouring the blinding light into the faces of the dazed passengers. The noise was incredible. Dogs were barking viciously. SS officers were shouting in German. Prisoners in striped uniforms were yelling in Polish, pulling people from the train. The people were too dazed at first, but then the car began to empty quickly.

Bashir stood up with Andrzej and his cousin and followed the others out the door, leaving his extra shirt behind. He glanced behind him as he did and noted there were at last a dozen corpses and sick people still inside. A rough hand on his shoulder pushed him down the small ramp that had been placed at the door, but he caught himself before he fell. Almost immediately he noticed the smell.

The scene before him was of utter chaos. Thousands of people stood in front of the train, gripping their families and asking questions of the striped prisoners who shouted back at them and sometimes pointed to the sky. Luggage was torn away from the passengers who refused to drop their bags. SS officers, both men and women, were shouting orders, pulling families apart, men to one side, women to the other. Despite the chaos, they managed the task fairly quickly and within seconds it seems, all the passengers were grouped, separated by gender and age. Bashir could see the old woman who had given him the clothes. She stood silently and did as she was told.

It was cold out in the air. But at least there was no wind. The air in the train had been stale and stank of bodies and excrement and decay. Out in the open the air smelled different, but not clean. An orange haze hung above the lights, and the air had a sickly, sweet, smoky odor to it. Bashir knew the smell. Flesh. Burning human flesh.

The two groups were formed into lines which then began to move. Vlád'a was clinging to the sleeve of Andrzej's coat so as not to lose him in the crowd. Andrzej, for his part kept close to Julian. He had a look in his eye like he wanted to say something, but he didn't. Bashir watched him and noticed, for the first time, that Andrzej was limping. He was about to ask about it, but Vlád'a broke in first. "_Kde jsme?_" he whispered to his cousin.

"_Nie wiem_," Andrzej whispered back.

At that someone ahead of them turned around. "_ Słyszałem, jak wi?zień rozmawiał o tym,_" he said. "_Auschwitz._"

It was the only word Bashir understood of the whole exchange, but it was enough. Auschwitz was a name every student knew. It was the largest, most infamous of all the concentration camps of the Holocaust. Bashir shivered and it was not from the cold.

* * *

Max Zeidl clung to his wife with a grip of iron. He must have hurt her arm, but she said nothing, nor cried out. And his grip never lessened. He was determined not to lose her in the crowd. For seven years, they'd been together. He was not going to lose her now. She and their daughter were all that he had left. They had left their home in Teplice after the Munich Conference had given it and the rest of the region to the Germans. And in leaving their home, they'd left their belongings, their families, and their memories. What few belongings they'd managed to take with them remained behind in the ghetto. Only two bags had come with them to the train. And now those two bags as well were taken from them. But Max didn't care about that. He had Sophie and Hana.

Max and Sophie had talked together quietly in the night while their daughter slept. He hated that he had so little food to give her. Sophie had tried to be optimistic. Wherever they were going had to be better than being cooped up in the cattle car that stank of too many people, both alive and dead. But now, she said nothing. She walked stiffly, clinging to her child and her husband as if in shock.

Max was in shock. It was not possible. None of what he saw made sense to him. It could not be reality. It was a nightmare, a scene from the gates of hell, he was sure of it. But it could not be real. His mind tried to make sense of it, but was unable. He didn't hear the screams, the shouted commands, or even the dogs his eyes could see. Only his arms worked properly, binding him to his family. Live or die, heaven or hell, they should be together.

He screamed when they began to pull her away. He refused to let her go. She cried and resisted them, insisting that she stay with her husband. Hana bawled loudly, tears steaming down her little cheeks. But their arms were stronger than his, weak as he was from the train, and they tore Sophie from him. They held him back and pushed her away to the other side. A gulf was between them. It was only a matter of meters, but he felt somehow that it was more than that. He stared helplessly at them, memorizing them, burning their images into his memory. And he heard himself tell them not to worry. They'd meet again in the camp. Be strong and brave, and they would see each other again. "I love you!" he shouted. Sophie cried and held their daughter close.

* * *

Captain Sisko closed his eyes tight and tried not to think. He smiled remembering the advice Doctor Bashir had given to Dax when she'd had to return to the Trill homeworld for medical treatment. She'd claimed she was too excited to rest. Sisko had assured her that the technique usually worked for him. His smile faded. He'd lied. He'd been trying that technique for going on two hours now, and he was no closer to sleep than when he'd started.

His own mind told him it was pointless to stay awake. It wouldn't help anything. The ship was being repaired as fast as possible under the circumstances. And exhausting himself would not bring back his missing crew. Even if they found them, they still wouldn't be able to transport them aboard. And O'Brien had told him it could take weeks to fix the transporter. There were other priorities.

His body, for its part, fairly ached from fatigue. He and everyone else left on the vessel were pulling double and even triple shifts. Everyone, including the senior staff, was engaged in helping O'Brien and his engineers with repairs, while also searching for the missing crew members. Progress was slow on the repairs, but at least it was progress.

But there was still no sign however of the missing people. Sisko had to admit that he was at least partially relieved by that. They'd scanned the surrounding space in a radius of nearly five hundred kilometers. The crewmen would've had to have been transported to the planet's surface. At least there, there was a chance of survival.

Sisko called for the computer to play some soothing music, a violin concerto by Mozart, and tried again to clear his thoughts. This time it worked. He was asleep before the music ended.

* * *

Bashir could see the SS man at the front of the line. He disinterestedly waved his finger left or right, sending the train's passengers one way or the other. Occasionally he stopped to ask them a few questions, and then he waved them on, one by one. Another prisoner in a striped uniform stood beside him, apparently as a translator.

As it neared their turn, Andrzej turned around and grabbed Bashir's arm with a strength Julian wouldn't have thought he had after their days in the train. "_Tu dois_," he whispered urgently, then he stopped as if he were struggling for the vocabulary. "_Tu dois_," he began again, "_regarder Vlád'a._"

_Watch_ _Vlád'a?_ Bashir shook his head. "_Pourquoi?_" he asked. But then it was nearly Andrzej's turn in front of the SS. Only one man stood between them.

Before he turned to face him, Andrzej whispered one word, "_Promis!_"

He spoke with such intensity, such fear in his eyes that Bashir could only nod. Andrzej removed Vlád'a's hand from his sleeve and whispered something to him that Bashir couldn't hear. The SS was watching, but he was looking down at Andrzej's legs when he turned around.

"_Warum humpelst du?_" he asked.

Andrzej stood up straighter, the defiance Julian had seen in him returned to his stance. But he didn't answer.

The prisoner beside the SS then spoke up, "_Dlaczego kulejesz?_"

"_Straciłem prawą stopę w wypadku dwa lata temu,_" Andrzej calmly replied.

After the translation, the SS man actually laughed, not aloud, but Bashir could see his shoulders shaking from it. The SS man flicked his finger to the left. Andrzej glanced back once more to Bashir and then slowly limped away to join the others going off to that side.

Then it was Vlád'a's turn.

The SS man looked him over. "_Wie alt bist du?_"

Vlád'a shifted nervously on his feet, and kept looking toward Andrzej's departing back. "_Nerozumim ně'mecky,_" he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The translator took the cue. "_Ile masz lat?_"

"_Osmnáct,_"Vlád'a answered. The hand flicked to the right. Vlád'a shook his head, still looking to the other side where his cousin had gone. But a guard standing nearby yelled ferociously for him to move on. Vlád'a took a halting step to his left and waited again.

_Go_, Bashir thought to him, wishing that Vlád'a could hear. He knew now why Andrzej had made him promise. Andrzej had limped. He wasn't healthy enough, not for work. And work was the only reason they would not go straight to the gas. Vlád'a took a few more steps, and it was Bashir's turn. The SS man sized him up quickly and pointed to the right. Bashir hurried to catch up with Vlád'a.

When he reached him, Vlád'a's face had gone pale. He was terrified and shocked. He'd just lost his cousin. His only family. Bashir took him by the arm and forced him to walk with him so as not to get beaten by the guards.

They were led into a long room, and the guards and prisoners yelled something out to them in their respective languages, none of which Bashir understood. Vlád'a looked around him like a caged animal though, his brow constantly furrowed and his eyes wide. Bashir looked around and saw that the other new arrivals were removing their clothing. Those that didn't were screamed at and beaten by the guards.

It was cold even with all the layers of clothes he was wearing and Bashir dreaded having to take them off. But he took off his coat. One SS officer was watching him, staring coldly with a slight smile on his face. Bashir's own face began to feel flushed. He was humiliated and not a little angry. But he was also helpless. He couldn't run from here. He couldn't fight. And he couldn't leave the frightened young man with him all alone.

Vlád'a, too, began to undress. Soon the whole room was a mass of naked, humiliated men shivering in the cold. Julian tried his best to look unaffected, to show strength to both his captors and his young companion. He knew enough of what this place had to offer. He only hoped he was strong enough to stand up to it until, somehow, Sisko and the others would find him.

On the train, as he sat with his eyes closed before falling asleep, he'd begun to lose his faith. They would never find him. His communicator was disabled, and he wouldn't have been able to keep it with him anyway. He was far away from his transport site, lost on a planet with billions of other humans that would look just like him to an orbiting sensor array. But stepping out of the train into the hell that was Auschwitz--and this was only the door to that hell--he'd changed his mind. It was all still just as impossible for them to find him, but he decided he needed to hang on to that faith. He needed something to hope in if he was going to survive.

Several veteran prisoners moved throughout the group pushing cards into the newcomers' hands. Bashir looked at his. It contained a six-digit number. The group began to move forward, and Bashir was thankful for the movement. It would help to warm them, if only just a little. But then he saw the large open doors and felt the draft from outside. The SS officer still watched him with his smug grin as he and Vlád'a stepped out into the mud and slush.

They entered another building. The group moved haltingly, starting and stopping, edging itself forward. Bashir could see above most of the heads in room, but he couldn't make out what was happening in front.

"_Du!_" Bashir jumped, in spite of himself. The word had come from right behind him where only the new prisoners had been. Slowly he turned. The SS officer was standing not six inches from his face. "_Du bist Engländer,_" he snarled.

That was simple enough that Julian could understand, but he wondered how this German could know that he was English. Bashir nodded, unsure of his voice if he should try to answer. He'd thought it best not to draw attention here, that to blend in was the safest course. But this officer had picked him out of the crowd and knew more about him already than should have been surmisable.

"_Komm mit mir!_" the officer said. His hand gestured that Julian should follow.

Bashir hesitated, but knew that was likely more dangerous than going with the officer, though his mind raced coming up with reasons the guard had singled him out. He forgot about the cold and found it harder to breathe, but his left foot stepped out to take the first step.

"_Ne!_" Vlád'a whispered, taking his arm. The SS heard this and stopped. "_Ne!_" Vlád'a whispered. "_Zůstajn!_"

The SS took one step forward and covered the distance between them. His arm swung out and struck Vlád'a full-force across the face, causing him to fall back onto the others. The officer looked to Julian again. "_Du,_" he spat menacingly, "_Komm!_"

Bashir started to follow, watching Vlád'a's face as he left, memorizing it. He would find him again. He'd promised Andrzej.

The SS led him outside again, behind the building. There was no one else around. Bashir stood in front of him and tried not to shiver. And he tried not to look ashamed. It was hard, standing there in the cold with nothing to cover himself.

The SS eyed him coldly and then smiled. "A word of advice," he said in perfect English, without even the slightest accent, "don't look the Germans in the eyes. I've observed that it's a good way to get yourself killed."

Bashir stared at the man in confusion. And then the man smiled again. His eyes gleamed and their color faded away, leaving nothing but an almost clear gelatinous liquid in their place, staring back at him ghoulishly. Bashir shook involuntarily as he watched the eyes form back again. The changeling.


	5. Chapter 5

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Five**

The wind was icy against Bashir's bare skin, and he could no longer control his shivering. He tried to keep his voice steady, but his teeth chattered when he asked, "Why are we here?"

Without warning, the SS officer--the changeling--swung out one arm that smashed into Bashir's face, nearly sending him to the ground. He caught himself on one knee and braced one arm against the side of the building. He had thought his face was numb, but it still stung from the force of the blow.

The changeling crouched down beside him, settling down on the ankles of his shiny black boots. "Another bit of advice," he snickered and then became deadly serious, "know your place. You do not ask questions here." He stood up again. "You are a Jew."

"But I'm not Jewish," he said quietly, hoping not to provoke another 'bit of advice.'

"And I'm not even _human_." His tone had made the word sound obscene. "But here," he smiled again, "you wear the stripes, and I--" he waved his arms with a flourish and changed into a familiar woman, her long brown hair pinned up beneath the SS uniform cap, "I can wear anything I want," Lieutenant Whaley's voice finished.

_Whaley, of course._ Bashir almost wanted to ask her how she had passed the bloodscreening, but, remembering the 'advice' he'd been given, thought better of it. Instead he clamped his mouth shut tight to keep his teeth from chattering and stood up with as much dignity as he could still muster.

"If I must be a solid," Whaley was saying, as she watched him rise, "I really do prefer this form, don't you?"

Bashir said nothing and tried to ignore the impulse to look her in the eyes in defiance.

"I could kill you now," she threatened, "like I killed your murderer captain. But I won't, not just yet."

Something stabbed at Bashir's chest at her words. Captain Sisko was dead? She had killed him. Or so she said. _She could be lying,_ he told himself._ But why would she? She has all the power here. _

"Well, enough reminiscing," she pronounced and then reformed again into the male SS officer. "We should get you processed."

Bashir stumbled forward in the direction the changeling indicated, the opposite end of the building. The men from the train were slowly coming out of the building. He scanned the faces for Andrzej's cousin, but all the men had their heads shaven. It was nearly impossible to tell any one of them apart.

Another SS officer spotted them as the changeling pushed Bashir into the line with the others. "_Warum hat der immer noch seine Haare_?" he shouted.

"_Er ist ein englischer Spion_!" the changeling called back. "_Laß' ihn seine Haare behalten--und seine Läuse auch_!" he laughed, clipping Bashir hard in the back of the head to prove his point.

Several bald heads turned to look at the subject of his comment. Bashir didn't know why they were staring at him, or what the changeling had said, but he didn't care, not anymore. He found himself not caring much about anything. He felt as if his whole life had suddenly come unraveled in one fluid movement. It felt like a weight--a million tons--had dropped on him. He was literally amazed that his legs still propelled him forward. The world had been turned upside down, and he was being crushed beneath it. His legs shouldn't still work.

* * *

Max waited in shame for his turn to be shaven. He was humiliated, standing before these people naked and powerless. But more so, he thought of Sophie. His beautiful, shy Sophie. Would they shave her, too, and cut her long blond braids? How could she bear that? She would bear it, he tried to tell himself, ignoring the scissors and the man holding them. It didn't matter what they did to him. What was hair anyway? It would grow again. Sophie would think the same. She would bear it and say it is nothing, because other things were much more important than hair and humiliation. She would bear it, and so he would bear it, too. And he would see her again in the camp.

He was both pushed and pulled with the crowd. He simply let them and his legs carry him wherever they were going. Out into the cold again. The air stung him, forced him to pay attention. He closed his eyes and tried to see their faces. Sophie sobbing as she clung to Hana. Hana, sweet little, Hana. She would turn three next month. So young and yet she already knew fear and hunger. It was so wrong. When she was born, he was so proud. He would have given her the world had she but asked for it. It only stung more when she had asked for bread and he had none to give.

He opened his eyes again when he felt the water on his shoulder. A shower. He hadn't had a chance to really bathe in days or even weeks. But the water here was scalding. Some tried to run back out but were beaten back by the guards. Max was sandwiched between too many people and was forced to endure the burning water. Then the crowd was pushing and pulling him again, back out into the cold on the icy camp streets. Dawn was just beginning to break, he saw, or was it just the camp's lights reflected by the smoke that hung over the buildings and smelled sickening and sweet?

Someone pushed something at him. It was one of the camp uniforms--a striped shirt, a pair of brown pants and a thin coat marked on the back by a large red patch. The clothes didn't look clean, and they didn't fit right, but at least they were something to wear. He could cover himself, and they provided some protection from the cold. There was a striped cap and some hard wooden shoes as well. He dressed quickly and moved on with the crowd, still in a daze, still waiting for the world to right itself.

* * *

_That's enough of that, Julian, _Bashir scolded himself, trying to break free of his depression. _You have to find Vláďa._ It was not just because of his promise to Andrzej. Finding Vláďa would give him someone else to worry about. And that would get his mind off of his own troubles. He scanned the men around him again, but couldn't see the boy.

The clothes he'd been given did not fit at all right, and he thought about what Garak would think of his new fashion statement. "Hardly flattering, my dear doctor," he'd say. And the vertical blue and gray stripes would only make him look taller and thinner. At least it was only the pants. Still, he sighed at that thought. He'd definitely be losing weight on this trip. The pants were too short, but he was somewhat more fortunate with the shirt. It was too big. He could pull the sleeves down part of the way over his hands. It was terribly thin, however, compared with the pants. But it felt good to put something on, even if it wasn't clean and wouldn't keep him warm.

_You can do this, Julian, _he told himself._ It may be hard, but you can get through it. You managed a month with the Jem'Hadar. Surely you can manage this. The others will find you._ But he was never very good at giving himself pep talks and this time was no exception. Would the others find him? Had the changeling really killed Sisko? He sighed and hoped that the changeling had been lying to break his spirit. _And you let her do it, too,_ he chided. He'd done exactly what she wanted, lost his hope. He would have to try harder in the future.

He staggered along with the others, following a guard deeper into the camp. He felt dizzy and chalked that up to not having eaten anything but a few icicles in the last three days--or was it four? His jaw ached and he fingered it gently. Bruised. From where the changeling had hit him. She wasn't going to make things easy. And it would be hard enough even if he only had the Nazis to deal with.

One of the others, a younger man, maybe Jake's age, was pushing his way back through the crowd. It took a moment for Bashir to recognize that it was Vláďa. His hair was gone and his eyes were wide and panicked. Bashir waved him over toward him and looked around to see if the guards had noticed him. Vláďa looked relieved to have found him, and Bashir grabbed his arm so that they wouldn't be separated again. He looked him over quickly in the dim light as they walked. He seemed to be alright, or rather, no worse off than he was before.

They were led into another building. Again, the group slowed and Bashir couldn't see what was happening at the front. He heard some short screams though and muffled crying. Vláďa grew more afraid and clung to Bashir's arm. After perhaps half an hour, he and the boy were at the front. Several prisoners there were working with the new arrivals. One of them handed Vláďa a slip of paper. Further up, another prisoner was pressing a needle to the arm of one of the men from the train. The SS guard, the changeling, had appeared again, standing not far from that. He began to move forward as Bashir was given a similar sheet of paper. It was a form of some sort, but Bashir could not read it.

"You don't read German?" the changeling asked loudly in a deep accent. Then he explained each of the lines as Bashir filled in information, some of which he made up. He couldn't exactly say his address was Deep Space Nine after all. He was pushed forward to the next table. Vláďa was waiting for him on the other side, but he got shoved out the door. Another prisoner at the table took the card Bashir still held and grabbed his left arm, twisting it and pushing up the sleeve so that his forearm was bared. Using quick motions he began stabbing Bashir with the needle he'd seen earlier. Bashir's arm stung with each jab, but he held his tongue, knowing that there were worse things in this camp than a number tattooed on his arm. He was handed a couple of patches with the same number and four cloth triangles.

They were led to a long building but were forced to wait outside of it and lined up in rows of five. Another prisoner began to count, in German. An SS officer, though not the one the changeling had been impersonating, stood nearby watching. It took several minutes for the man to finish, but when he did he approached the SS and gave him a report of the number of prisoners. The wind had picked up, and Bashir noticed that some of the newcomers had received coats with their clothes. Both he and Vláďa were forced to do without.

Finally, the counting done, they were led inside. This building was quite different from the others. There was a walkway down the middle with what looked like a short, wide, brick wall running the length of it. Bashir thought he felt a little heat coming from it. It was not enough to heat the room. On either side were wooden bunks, three high and without mattresses or blankets. They were crooked and slanted and didn't look very sturdy.

One man, a leader of some sort who wore a slightly different uniform, started pointing to the bunks and counting off five people. Bashir and Vláďa were allocated to one near the door, a middle bunk, with three other people who didn't seem to know each other. Julian helped Vláďa up onto the bunk and then climbed up himself. There was barely enough room for all of them to sit on the planks. Julian's shoulders brushed the bottom of the bunk above him.

Bashir looked at Vláďa and sighed again. "How am I going to talk to you?" he asked, knowing the boy wouldn't understand.

Vláďa looked back at him blankly and shook his head slightly. "_Kde je Andrzej?_"

Bashir caught the name and realized what he must be asking. Where was his cousin? But how could he tell Vláďa that Andrzej had been killed. Even if they'd had a common language between them, Julian wasn't sure he wanted to be the one to break that to anyone.

"_Ty jsi Čech?_" one of the men on the bunk asked excitedly, grabbing Vláďa by the arm. He was thin and looked to be about the same age as Bashir was, maybe a little older. Otherwise there was little to distinguish the man from any of the others.

"_Jo_," Vláďa answered, nodding his head.

The other man looked only slightly relieved. Something else was clearly on his mind, and his eyes kept darting back around the room as he listened to the other conversations going on. "_Jmenuji se Max_," he said finally. "_Max Zeidl. Před válkou jsem žil v Teplicích_."

"_Vláďa Ščerbak_," Vláďa replied, and Bashir realized they were doing introductions. "_Z Prahy. A tady je_. . . ." He hesitated looking toward Bashir.

"Julian Bashir," Julian supplied, extending his hand.

Max took it and shook quickly. He eyed Bashir for a moment with a look of both curiosity and a bit of suspicion. In fact, Bashir was getting that from a lot of their fellow prisoners. But Max turned back to Vláďa. "_Angli?an?_" he asked.

Vláďa nodded. "_Můj bratranec a já jsme ho potkali ve vlaku. Měl na sobě nějaké divné oblečení, ale Andrzej si myslí že je doktor_."

"_On nemluv česky?_"

Vláďa shook his head. "_Ne_."

Max turned back to Bashir, and Bashir wondered what they'd been talking about. "_Sprechen Sie deutsch?_" he asked slowly.

Bashir shook his head. "No, English." And then he quickly added, "and French. _Parlez-vous français?_"

Max dropped his eyes and his shoulders sagged. "_Nein_."

_Great,_ Bashir thought, sarcastically. There was an awkward silence between them, but he really didn't know what he could do about it. Neither of them could understand him.

* * *

Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax rubbed her eyes and then checked the chronometer. 0800. Her shift was over. She yawned and then checked the computer again. It was beginning to make sense of the bits and pieces of data they'd managed to recover from the debris of the shuttle. Nothing concrete yet, but she could see that some of the fragments were from the transporter logs. If they could get even partial coordinates from the logs, they would have a better chance of finding Julian and the other missing crewmen.

Dax ordered the computer to keep working and to notify her of any results and then headed for the turbolift. She sighed as the lift began to move. She knew she cared for Julian and treasured his friendship, but she was still surprised at how much she missed him now. He'd been away before on various missions, some of them quite dangerous. He'd even once been reported dead. She had attended his memorial service. She had thought she would never miss him as much as then. But she did now.

She missed him more. He always had a bright smile for her, was always kind. He would go out of his way for her, do anything for her. He had even risked his life to save her. Not every friend would do that. And she knew he would do that for just about anyone. He was a special kind of person. She'd known that for some time now. He was intelligent and handsome, seemingly arrogant to those who didn't know him and yet insecure, naive at times and wise at others. He was sweet and kind, almost fragile. And yet he was strong and determined and very protective of patients, fearless when they were threatened. He was, in many ways, a contradiction. She liked that about him.

The turbolift stopped and she stepped out, passing other crewmen just coming on to their shifts. She yawned again. Continuous double shifts were hard on a body. And the days were shorter here, which didn't help. She had gotten used to the twenty-six hour days on Deep Space Nine. Twenty-four didn't leave much time for anything but sleeping and eating in between sixteen hours of duty.

The days went by faster, and she wasn't quite sure if that was a good thing or not. On the one hand, it kept her busy, leaving less time to worry and think about Julian and the others. And it would be that much sooner to the day when the _Defiant_ was repaired. But she also knew that it was still the same amount of time, whether or not it was the same number of days that went by. Each day was one more that Julian was not on board the ship. He'd been gone more than three days already.

And each day was another day that the changeling could be tampering with Earth's history, and thereby, the Federation's. She had talked with Ensign Thomas about this time. This was, in many ways, a pivotal point in Earth's history. A massive planetary war was being fought. And when it ended the balance of power would have shifted from Europe to North America and the Soviet Union. And within just a few years, the first nuclear weapon would be released ushering in a nuclear age.

As bad as it all sounded, Dax knew that it would give way to better things. Zephram Cochran would use a discarded nuclear weapon to invent the first warp ship. And the Federation would spring from that little point in history. She had seen it many times in her eight lives' worth of memories. The good is tied up with the bad in a delicate balance. It would not take much for the changeling to tip the scales one way or the other.

Her quarters were dark when she reached them, and she didn't bother turning on the lights. She slipped off the outer layers of her uniform and then laid down on the lower bunk. She ordered the computer to wake her at 1500 hours and fell asleep.

* * *

The leader, the one in the different uniform, was speaking now. Or rather, he was yelling. He seemed to be engaged in an angry tirade, and he beat upon the bunks with a small, hard, rubber club as he walked past them. But, of course, Julian Bashir could understand very little of what was being said. He caught a few words, simply because of the similarity of some German words to their English counterparts. "_Konzentrationslager_" was "concentration camp". He already knew the name, so "Auschwitz" was familiar to him, too, though the man said it in combination with another word he didn't know, "Birkenau." "_Morgen_" and "_Nacht_" he understood as "morning" and "night", but could not understand what was said about them.

All of the prisoners sat listening in stunned silence. Their eyes followed the leader, who had identified himself as a _Blockälteste_, as he paced disgustedly from one end of the long building to the other. Bashir counted the bunks as he passed and was shocked to realize that there had to be over four hundred men in just this one block. How many other blocks were there? The scale of the camp staggered him.

Max listened intently to the man, so intently that Bashir thought he might fall over the end of the bunk and land right on the floor in front of him. But instead, he seemed frozen there, precariously perched over the narrow walkway.

One man, toward the center of the row of bunks on the opposite side of the building interrupted the _Blockälteste_, standing up in front of him in a daring display of dignity and courage. "_Wo sind unsere Familien?_" he asked.

Julian recognized the reference to family. Max moved then, and peered farther out into the walkway, obviously very interested in the answer. Vláďa, too, moved farther toward the end of the bunk.

In answer the _Blockälteste_ raised his club and smashed it down on the man's shoulder, bringing him instantly to his knees. Three more blows left him cringing on the floor. Bashir watched in horror. The _Blockälteste_ laughed in the face of his own cruelty. "_Hast du den Rauch nicht gesehen?_" he asked loudly, kicking the fallen man in the side. "_Da ist deine familie und da wirst du auch bald landen!_"

No one dared to move to help the man. Bashir had to fight his own instincts to stop himself from jumping down and moving to his side. Max though, had gone pale, and he mumbled something over and over. "_Was meint er bloss? Rauch? Was meint er damit?_"

"_Co říkal?_" Vláďa asked, tugging on Max's sleeve.

"_Říkal, že všichni skončíme v kouří_," Max translated, though he still only whispered and his eyes never met Vláďa's. "_Jak je to možné? Jak mužou být v kouří?_" The skin around his eyes began to swell and then a tear fell down his face. And his breathing became more rapid.

_He knows_, Julian thought. He wondered if the _Blockälteste_ had shouted it out then, told them that their families had been killed, but the rest of the block seemed to be lost still in shock and confusion. Vláďa didn't show any signs of the shock and grief that were becoming more and more apparent in Max's face.

Max switched from Czech back to German, still muttering to himself, only now he was becoming louder. The _Blockälteste_ had moved to the far end of the building. "_Hat noch jemand irgendetwas zu sagen?_" he bellowed. His stance conveyed a definite threat.

"_Wie können sie im Rauch sein?_" Max asked, working himself into a panic. "_Wo sind meine Sophie und meine kleine Hana? Wie können sie im Rauch sein?_"

"_Ticho!_" Vláďa whispered urgently.

Max ignored him and kept repeating himself. He fidgeted now and Bashir thought perhaps he would jump down from the bunk. He looked down the walkway, hoping the _Blockälteste_ hadn't heard. The man was making his way again to their end of the barracks, still thumping his club against the wooden beams of the bunks. The man he'd beaten still lay motionless on the floor. The _Blockälteste_ stepped over him as if he were no more than a wrinkle in a carpet.

"_Wie können sie im Rauch sein?_" Max challenged. The _Blockälteste_ stopped in his tracks.

_He's going to get himself killed_, Bashir thought and he knew he couldn't sit by and watch it happen.

"_Wie--_" Max began again, but Bashir moved quickly to get behind him. He slapped a hand over Max's mouth and pulled him back from the edge of the bunk. Max struggled and tried to kick his feet, but Vláďa threw himself over his legs. Bashir was thankful for the help. He kept a close watch on the _Blockälteste_. He didn't seem to know where the outburst had come from and had resumed his tirade.

Max's hands clawed at Bashir's, but Julian refused to let him go. Max's body was rigid as he struggled, but then he seemed to melt, relaxing his muscles and falling into Bashir. His body convulsed then, and Bashir realized he was sobbing. He released his hold on Max's face and wrapped his arms around him, holding him while he wept. _Sophia and Hannah_, _he'd said_, Bashir recalled. _Wife and child, perhaps?_ _Or sisters?_

He glanced at Vláďa, wondering if he now understood, too, where his cousin had gone. Vláďa still held Max's legs which had given up kicking him away. He was doubled up with his face buried against Max's knees. He knew, too.

* * *

"Captain!" Kira said, her voice carrying excitement and urgency. She turned to face him, nearly beaming. "I've got a signal."

The whole bridge erupted in a cheer, and Sisko found himself smiling as well, though he knew that any celebrations were premature. Still after six days of searching, it was good news. "On screen, Major."

The viewscreen came to life. This time there was no need for the computer to enhance the image. O'Brien and his teams had managed to get the starboard sensors up to half-strength. The viewscreen showed a much wider area than before, and Sisko could clearly identify the area shown as the western coast of South America, bordered on one side by the Pacific and the other by the Andes Mountains.

One pinpoint of light glowed toward the bottom edge of the screen. As they watched another light appeared not far from the first and then another nearer the coast. The only problem was, Sisko had studied his geography. The three signals were located in a desert. The Atacama to be precise, and it was still just as arid in the twenty-fourth century as it was in the twentieth.

"Communications?" Sisko asked, knowing the answer, but hoping that perhaps he had grossly underestimated his crew.

"Not yet, Benjamin," Dax replied sadly.

He knew the transporter was still out as well. "Well, let's try and keep some sort of lock on them," Sisko decided. "As soon as we've got communications, we want to get word to them. Can we tell who they are?"

Kira ran her hands over her controls. "Crewmen Wieland," she read, "Armand, and Keller."

Sisko lowered his voice, knowing that the next question he asked wouldn't be taken well by his crew. "Lifesigns?"

Kira shook her head. "Sensors are just too weak to make that out at this range."

Sisko sighed. At least that wasn't bad news. It was possible to survive in the desert, just not easy. And finding them told him something else as well. "Major, let's not limit the search to populated areas. We'll need to scan every inch of the planet's surface."

The noise level on the bridge had dropped considerably, and Sisko knew morale was being tested by the long shifts, slow repairs, and worries over missing crewmates. They'd just had a high point, but the inability to aid the three crewmembers they'd just found took the joy out of finding them. It was time for a show of support from the captain. He stood. "All hands," Sisko began, knowing the computer would instantly open the comm line so that every member of the crew would hear what he was about to say, "I'd like to express my appreciation for all the hard work that this crew has been doing.

"I realize that the last week has been a great strain on all of us, and it's not about to let up. Just a few moments ago, sensors were able to locate three of our missing crewmembers. As yet we cannot speak with them or transport them back aboard the ship, but every day, every shift we are closer to doing that. Your hard work is paying off. Let's keep working and bring our people home."

* * *

The first time he'd seen the soup, he was sure he did not want to eat it. It looked like little more than dirty water with things floating in it. The things floating were not necessarily of much food value at all. He'd even found a button in it once, perhaps fallen off the cook's shirt. But after several days of eating nothing but a few icicles, he was hungry enough to try anything. And since the soup was the only thing allowed him, he drank it, and subsequently vomited. Vláďa had, too, and Max. They all did at first. But the next day came, and they were even more hungry. Then the soup stayed down.

He had thought that they would be made slaves in the camp, but they had yet to leave the courtyard of the barracks except to be taken in groups to toilet blocks or to attend the roll calls. And yet staying was proving bad enough. Each morning they were chased out of the barracks while it was still dark outside. After roll call, they were led back to the courtyard, but not allowed inside.

The _Blockälteste_ drilled them incessantly, forcing them to lie down and then jump back up repeatedly and delivering blows to anyone who didn't seem to catch on fast enough. Bashir had received a few himself, and his arms still ached from it. The Germans called this "sport" and laughed as they watched the exhausted prisoners drop to the ground and then get up and run in place to the commands of the _Blockälteste_. Julian didn't find it too hard at first. He was fit and could manage the exercises. But his hunger was making it harder. Several prisoners dropped and never moved again. The _Blockälteste_ ignored them and shouted his orders even louder and faster. They were also taught German marching songs and how to report to the SS in German. They got a meager ration of soup at midday and then had to endure another roll call in the evening.

The roll calls were horrendous, much more so than he would have imagined. They weren't so much roll calls though. No names were called. Twice each day, the prisoners simply stood in rows as the SS guards counted them. There were thousands of prisoners, even in just this part of the camp, and often they would have to count a second time or third. For hours the prisoners would have to stand motionless in the icy wind while their captors counted and recounted.

The rest of the evening, they just sat around the courtyard talking quietly in groups and tried not to get caught by the SS _Blockführer_ or beaten by the _Blockälteste_ and his assistants. Any complaint or question was seen as an infraction and reasonable provocation for a beating. In the last two days, thirty-seven men had died just from Bashir's barracks, from beatings or starvation or sickness. One of them had shared the bunk with Bashir and the two Czechs. Bashir wasn't even sure of his specific cause of death. They just woke up in the morning and he didn't move. Max and he had been forced to carry the body out for roll call.

Suddenly the door burst open. All movement in the barracks stopped as two SS officers stepped inside the door. Neither of them was the _Blockführer_. Their faces were stern and their noses turned up in disgust. The _Blockälteste_ had frozen, too, when the door opened, but now he was a flurry of movement, shouting orders and clubbing anyone who did not move fast enough.

Max, who'd taken the role of interpreter of sorts, quickly relayed the orders to Vláďa. Bashir watched them and followed their movements. Everyone jumped down from the bunks. Julian did so as well and felt a wave of dizziness at the sudden movement. He forced it away though. Max removed his cap. Julian and Vláďa repeated the movement.

Within seconds the room was silent again. The _Blockälteste_ watched the SS nervously, cringing himself. The SS had waited for the prisoners to line up, but now they moved down the block, each to one side of the 'oven', as Bashir called it to himself. The brick structure that ran down the middle of the barracks was not used to cook anything, though it made a pretense at heating the building. The SS seemed to be surveying the prisoners.

Bashir's bunk was the fourth from the door, and it did not take long for the SS to reach it. They walked with slow methodical steps, stomping loudly with their shiny, black boots. Bashir forced himself to remain perfectly still and held his breath until the SS had passed. The thought that one of them might be the changeling ran through his mind, but he didn't dare look up to see if he recognized them. The changeling had warned him about that.

The SS said nothing as they passed, but simply kept walking and Bashir realized they were simply trying to intimidate. It was working. Bashir knew what the SS were capable of. He was relieved when they reached the end of the block without incident. The _Blockälteste_ cringed some more as they stopped in front of him, and Bashir smiled slightly to himself. He reminded him of a Ferengi.

The SS turned smartly and began walking back up the block, this time moving at a normal pace. The _Blockälteste_ straightened up behind their backs, obviously relieved as well that the SS were leaving. Bashir held his breath again as they approached his bunk. Two more steps and they would be beyond him.

But the one on his side of the oven stopped right in front of him. He was so close that Bashir could see his own reflection in the toes of the other man's boots. "_Hier ist der Engländer_," he said slowly, his tone filled with disdain. The second SS joined him.

Bashir slowly blew out the breath he was holding and tried to remain calm. It was no use, however, and he could feel his pulse quicken in his chest. He clenched his fists as he tensed up, expecting blows or a quick bullet to the head. But neither of them drew their weapons. Why had they singled him out? He tried to come up with a reason that would not necessarily entail his own death.

"_Komm her_!" the first one barked.

Bashir hoped that didn't mean what it sounded like. He didn't want to go anywhere with the German. He figured it had to be safer being part of the crowd. He felt his knees begin to shake and willed them to remain steady.

When Bashir didn't move, the second man came over. "What's the matter, Jew?" he began, his tone mocking, but his words were in heavily accented English. "Can you not understand?" His voice rose. "Step out!" he screamed, grabbing Bashir by the shoulder and forcing him forward. "Out," he ordered, pointing toward the door.

For all its overcrowded filthiness and the cruelty of the _Blockälteste_, Bashir now did not want to leave the barracks. Whatever chances it offered for punishment and death, he felt his chances were better inside it than out.

He hesitated just for the briefest of moments, but found that it was too long. "_Out!_" the SS repeated, pulling his weapon. Julian began to move.

* * *

Chief O'Brien yawned before he stepped out into the corridor. His shift had just ended four hours ago. He had four hours before the next one started. But a staff meeting was a staff meeting, and this time, he knew, there was good news to report. Luckily the captain's quarters were not too far from his own, and Sisko had promised to keep it brief.

"Come on in, Chief," Sisko said, offering him the only place to sit besides the bunks. "Sorry to wake you up."

"That's alright, sir," O'Brien said, stifling another yawn. Four hours of sleep just wasn't enough. "I heard the good news."

Worf was the last one to arrive. He looked uncomfortable as he stepped into the room. But then, O'Brien knew him well enough to know that he almost always looked uncomfortable. It was one reason that made it so easy to tease Worf. But that wasn't quite as much fun now that Julian wasn't around. Julian was great at it. He had the perfect innocent face. O'Brien wouldn't have thought, several years ago, that Bashir would be such a good liar. Maybe it was something he picked up from Garak. But then again, it could have come from all that enhancement business. He'd kept that quiet for nearly twenty years.

Quarters on the _Defiant_ were small to begin with and really were not made to accommodate staff meetings. But, unfortunately, neither was any place else, at the moment, except the mess hall. But this was a shift change. One third of the remaining crew would be heading there for a meal before turning in. Given the little time they had to do so, Sisko had offered to have the meeting here and keep the mess hall open.

As it was, there weren't enough places for everyone to sit. Sisko himself had opted for the floor, allowing Kira and Dax to share the lower bunk. Worf stood by the door.

"Well, as the Chief said," Sisko began, "there's been some good news. But there's also been some not-so-good news. Let's start with the good.

"I assume you all heard the announcement. Chief, you'll be happy to know that two of your engineers were among the signals found. Armand and Wieland, to be exact. Crewman Keller seems to have been transported nearby."

"Why only three, Benjamin?" Dax asked. "The transporter can handle two at a time."

Sisko did not have an answer for her. Instead he had another question. "Where was Keller stationed last?"

Kira checked a PADD and then gave the answer. "He was in the transporter room."

O'Brien's heart sank. Sisko had found blood in that room.

Sisko sighed. "I don't know how familiar you are with Earth geography. What I'm about to say shouldn't leave this room." He waited for everyone to nod and then continued. "The signals were found in the Atacama Desert."

"You don't think they survived."

There were times that O'Brien appreciated Worf's bluntness, and others when it really annoyed him. This was one of the latter. The Chief thought that maybe Sisko felt that way too, but the captain had a lot of restraint.

Sisko stared at the Klingon for a moment before replying. "I think it's still possible that they are alive. It would be difficult, but not impossible, to survive there."

O'Brien thought about what Kira had said. "If Keller was in the transporter room," he said, "then he was one of the first." He looked to Sisko for confirmation. When the captain nodded, he continued. "Armand and Wieland were in the Engine Room. They were after him."

"Do you think they may all be there?" Dax asked.

Kira shook her head though. "I know the sensors are weak, but I scoured that area. There were no other signals there."

Sisko agreed. "We can't assume they're all there. What we need to decide is whether or not to divulge the names of the three to the crew."

"Why wouldn't we?" O'Brien asked. He felt like maybe he knew the answer, but he was really too tired now to figure it out on his own.

"Because we can't talk to them or beam them up," Sisko answered patiently. "And because they are in a desert."

"Might get their hopes up," Kira assessed.

"Exactly," Sisko confirmed. "I don't want to assume the worst, but I did find blood on the floor of the transporter room. Besides, I want to concentrate on getting everyone back. I don't want the crew thinking of this friend or that friend. I want them thinking of the 'crew.'"

Sisko sat quietly for a few moments. "Chief, how soon can we have communications?"

O'Brien dreaded questions like this. With a full engineering team, modern equipment, the necessary tools, and a starbase to dock at, they could have had the ship back to top form in two weeks, tops. But they were short on all of those things, especially the starbase. There was nowhere to get new parts. They had to replicate nearly everything they needed and main power still was not up to full strength. It was a lot like the first time he had set eyes on Deep Space Nine. There were a lot of systems needing repairs, too few people to repair them, and not enough parts. It could be fixed. It was just going to take awhile.

Finally he answered. "We should have something in a few days, Captain, maybe by tomorrow, though it would be very limited. The changeling destroyed our antennae. We'll probably be out of range with the surface. We're going to have to get closer."

"And the transporter?"

"You've seen it yourself, sir," O'Brien apologized. "It's torn to pieces."

Sisko nodded. At least he was being patient--more patient than O'Brien felt. The majority of his people were down there somewhere. And so was Julian, and Julian was his best friend. He only hoped he wasn't letting it show too much to his new team of makeshift engineers. Their jobs were hard enough without him riding rough-shod all over them.

"I think we've been going about this all wrong," Sisko continued, "by assuming that the changeling would beam our people into the more heavily populated areas. The Atacama certainly isn't heavily populated. So the other crewmembers might be somewhere equally as obscure."

"And equally as hostile," Worf added.

"Which is all the more reason to find them."

* * *

Bashir was surprised when the SS officers walked away. They had given some orders to the other guard that had been standing outside the barracks door. He was dressed differently from the SS, and Bashir decided that he was probably not an officer. He was even more surprised when the guard marched him right out of the camp.

A truck was waiting there, with six armed soldiers in the back. The guard said nothing to him, but he prodded with his gun to get him in the truck. The guard climbed in as well. The other soldiers all eyed him nervously, their hands on their guns, fingers near the triggers. What did they think of him, Bashir wondered, that it required so many guards to watch him?

He tried to ignore them and looked out the back of the truck. He could see the immensity of the camp they'd just left and the curved, cane-like posts that held the barbed wire. The whole countryside beyond was desolate and it did not even occur to Bashir that it was an effect of winter. He could not imagine this place in springtime. It just didn't seem right.

The ride was a short one, no more than a few kilometers he guessed. The truck stopped and the guard shoved him out and then jumped down himself. He was led through a metal gate into another camp. It looked to him almost like a small town with nice brick buildings and pebble-covered streets lined with trees. The guard walked behind him. Bashir could hear his gun rattling as he walked.

The sun had set, which cast the camp in shadows and dim light. Julian tried to keep track of the buildings they passed, the path they walked to wherever he was being taken. It had been a long walk already, and his legs ached from the strain. He couldn't see the other camp anymore, the one where Vláďa and Max were, but he could still see the haze of smoke from the fires just beyond.

The guard stopped him at another gate, this one set into a brick wall between two buildings. The gate opened and Bashir was pushed inside. A guard there questioned his guard for a few moments and then motioned them into the yard.

It was a plain, open area, walled again at the opposite end. A smaller wooden wall was placed in front of that one, its sides flared inward toward the yard. The windows on the building to the left were boarded up so that Bashir couldn't see inside. There were a few wooden posts along that side as well that reached nearly as high as the tops of the windows. Bashir couldn't decide what they were for, since they were set wide apart from each other and did not seem to support anything. Another guard was standing there. The building on the other side was rather nondescript by comparison. A few steps led up to a door about halfway between the gate and the wooden wall at the other end.

The guard pushed him to the left though, toward the boarded building and one of the tall posts. The man waiting there smiled as they approached. _Maybe that's the changeling_, Julian thought. He still didn't know why he'd been taken from the barracks in the other camp and brought to this one. None of the guards had yet said anything to him about it, in German or otherwise.

The man at the posts grabbed Bashir by the shoulders and spun him around to face the first guard, the one who had brought him here. That one looked on impassively as Bashir's hands were tied behind him. At first, Bashir thought they were going to tie him to the post but he realized his arms hadn't been brought around the post. He tried to show no reaction when the ropes were pulled tight against his wrists, but he worried about the circulation if he should be tied that way for long.

The man behind him then began to lift Bashir's arms high behind his back, causing him to bend over toward the ground. Again, he tried to keep his face even. He clenched his teeth as his arms were lifted even higher. His shoulders and back began to protest and the other guard had to actually lift him up. By the time he was secured to the post his feet were dangling just above the ground. The ropes began to bite into his wrists, and finally the guards backed away, leaving him hanging on the post.

_So that's what they're for,_ he thought, trying to ignore the pain. _It's not that bad, _he told himself._ It's more discomfort than pain._ But as the night deepened, he was not fully convinced of his own argument.

It most assuredly was pain, in his shoulders and in his chest. He found it difficult to breathe in that position. His arms were going numb, both from the cold and from the lack of circulation. His legs felt the same way.

He'd never thought that a simple post, such as this one, could be such an effective punishment device. Whatever it was he had done to deserve his hours of torment hanging from it, Bashir decided he was very sorry and would endeavor not to do it again, provided someone told him what his crime had been. He'd hoped they would come back for him when morning broke, but when the guards arrived, they had another prisoner with them, whom they hung on the post to Bashir's left.

Another hour went by and he tried to concentrate on something besides the pain and the numbness in his hands and feet. He tried reciting poems or singing songs in his head, but he found he couldn't remember the words and verses. He couldn't concentrate. He tried then recounting the names of his crewmates, starting with the senior staff and everything he knew about each of them.

He thought of Sisko and Jake and baseball, of Kira and the resistance, of Dax and tried to name all of her previous hosts. But he couldn't remember if Audrid had come before Emony. He moved on to O'Brien and then gave up. It wasn't working. They had to come for him soon.

* * *

Major Kira Nerys sipped her raktajino as she read the report Dax had left for her. It showed the first positive results they'd gotten from the remains of the shuttle. The report contained coordinates and pieces of transporter logs, but little that was complete. The records also showed the command for self-destruct and that the authorization for such a measure had been by-passed.

Kira already had people trying to match up the coordinates with the planet they were orbiting. But coordinates worked in specific ways. To mark any particular point on the globe, you need two sets of coordinates, one for latitude and one for longitude. Unfortunately, the report contained only fourteen sets of numbers. Only by the fact that some of the numbers ranged higher than ninety could one tell that they were longitudinal coordinates and not those of latitude. So for a coordinate of 20 degrees there were four possible locations, one in each hemisphere and each one a ring around the entire planet.

For some, a time index was also included which made it possible to determine which two crewmen were beamed to which coordinates, but it had already been decided that that information would remain confidential. Knowing that the last two to be transported were Bashir and the changeling itself, Kira checked the time index. None of the coordinates matched that time.

She sighed. Since they'd found the three signals in the desert, they had found two more in the vicinity of a small island group off the coast of the South American continent. Salerno and Sopok, a Vulcan. Luckily it looked as if that particular island group was not inhabited by humans at this time.

Kira thought it was getting easier to get out of bed each morning now that they were making some progress. The ship was coming along quicker now. Each day, it seemed another system came online. And now they were finding the missing crewmembers. They would be passing over another continent soon. Asia. With any luck, they would find some more.

* * *

It was sometime before noon when his shoulder dislocated. He had felt the pressure building in both arms for hours and had known it was not only highly possible, but highly likely, that one or both of his shoulders would come out of their sockets. But he hadn't quite been prepared for the amount of pain it would entail.

It had started with a crunching sound and then a jolt as his shoulder refused to support his weight any longer. The left side of his body fell a few inches closer to the ground and his now dislocated shoulder was twisted up even higher behind his back. Adding to the initial burst of agony was the continuing pain of hanging against that arm and the even more awkward position it left his right shoulder in. He'd screamed when it happened. He couldn't help it. The sound had just ripped itself from his lungs. There were several guards in the yard by then, and he could vaguely hear them laughing. And then all was blackness.

Several times he had woken again. He stared at his shadow lying beneath his useless feet dangling from his useless legs. His whole body felt useless, a source of nothing but pain and torment. Useless. He felt he would give anything just to be taken down from there. And then he would pass out again.

When he came to again, his shadow had all but disappeared. He thought it strange and worried about losing it. He was unable to conceive of the real reason it had gone, that the sun was straight overhead.

The door opened in the building across from him and he tried to lift his head to see. He dared to hope that they were coming to release him. But his head was too heavy and fell back again, hanging ineffectually from his neck. He could see the feet of the soldiers who exited the building though and the prisoners they brought with them. If he could have remembered how to count at that point, he would have realized that there were six of them, all naked with their heads bent low, and the guards were too busy with them to cut him down from the pole.

In fact, they never came near him. They marched the six to Bashir's left toward the brick wall between the two buildings. One of the guards lined the prisoners up against the wooden wall, while the other held back. Bashir could see them from the corner of his eye, and somehow his mind was able to form a thought. The six men were being executed. He felt a flash of jealousy. Their deaths would be quick.

_No,_ he found the strength to argue with himself, _I don't want to die_._ I'm not even supposed to be here._ He heard a few commands shouted in German and then the even staccato beat of six gunshots. He turned his head slightly and saw the six men fall. He wondered what they had done to deserve death.

He never saw the six taken away. When he woke up again they were simply gone. The man hanging beside him was whimpering now and struggling against the rope. Bashir felt as if his legs and arms no longer existed. There was nothing left but his shoulders, which were very much alive with pain, and his chest which ached at every breath. His shadow hung once again below his feet and stretched out far toward the wall. The yard was becoming darker, though he was not sure if that was from the time of day or because his eyes were failing him. He closed them.

He opened them again when he felt a stab of pain at the top of his head. His head lifted and he could see an arm holding it up. The arm was attached to a oddly-dressed soldier. He reminded Bashir of the Battle of Britain in the holosuites with the Chief. The man let go of his hair and Bashir's head dropped again. He could no longer see his shadow.

He heard voices around him, speaking a language he couldn't understand. He couldn't remember where he was or why he was in so much pain. He couldn't understand why they were laughing at him. And then he felt the pressure in his shoulders disappear. The ground rose up fast to meet him until he rested his face upon its cold surface. His shoulders still blazed in pain but he could feel they were no longer wrenched high behind him. They had cut him down. The blackness overcame him again, and he was unaware of being dragged up the steps and into the door across the yard.

* * *

True to his word, O'Brien and his teams had the communications system running, and it had only been twenty-five hours since the staff meeting. "We don't have much range, sir," Stevens reminded him. The Chief had gone off duty late that afternoon. He would be pleasantly surprised when he woke up later that night.

"Major, where are our people?" Sisko asked, allowing a bit of excitement to creep into his voice. He knew it was still a long shot. Without the antenna, their signal would not carry very far and would be susceptible to interference, both atmospheric and artificial.

The now-familiar map replaced the picture on the viewscreen with four wide circles pointing to the areas where comm badge signals had been picked up. During the last twenty-four hours, four more had been found, two in the Serengeti Desert and two in the general area of Nepal.

A slightly larger, transparent red circle was also displayed on the map. Kira had anticipated his next question and had provided a display of the _Defiant_'s current communications range. The red circle intersected with a portion of the one in Chile. Those were the ones they could reach, if all went well.

The bridge crew became silent, waiting for him to give the order. Sisko watched the viewscreen. "Major, see if they can hear us."

He glanced her way and saw her nod sharply. Then she turned back to her console, calling up the proper commands. "_Defiant_ to Armand," she called.

Sisko found himself holding his breath as he waited for an answer.

"_Defiant_ to Armand," Kira repeated. She waited a few moments and then called the second name. "_Defiant_ to Keller."

Kira repeated the hail again. In front of him, Sisko saw Dax's shoulders fall. It was perhaps only a centimeter, barely noticeable, but he had known her a long time. Besides, he felt the same way, though to be truthful, he really hadn't expect an answer from Keller.

"_Defiant_ to Wieland." Still there was silence. "_Defiant_ to Wieland."

Kira turned to him. Though her face was passive, the disappointment showed in her eyes. Sisko waited a moment and then spoke, hoping to console his crew. "Major, keep trying as we come into range with the others. The engineers warned us the signal would be weak. We'll drop altitude once we have the cloak."

Kira nodded and turned away again, probably to get ready for the Galapagos. Two signals had originated from there as well.

* * *

The bridge was unusually quiet for the next hour as they waited for the earth to turn, bringing them into the best possible position for reaching Lieutenant Sopok and Ensign Salerno. Kira turned her chair around to face the captain and waited for his signal.

Sisko only nodded in return.

She turned back to her station. "_Defiant_ to Sopok," Kira hailed as once again the bridge crew held its breath. She felt the urge to smash her fist against the console when there was no answer. "_Defiant_ to Sopok."

Still, silence met them on the comm line. Kira pressed her controls and tried again, this time trying to reach the ensign. "_Defiant_ to Salerno." She stopped, took a deep breath and then tried again. "_Defiant_ to Salerno."

She listened, hoping to hear something, but the only sounds were those of the computer equipment around her. And then, softly, she heard a voice. "_Defiant_?" it called weakly. The next sound she heard was the collective intake of breath by everyone on the bridge.

Knowing that their comm signal could have been interrupted by radio signals originating on the planet, Kira didn't allow herself to get her hopes up just yet. She could have reached a local. "Ensign Salerno, do you read?"

"This is Salerno. Major, is that you?" The voice still sounded weak, and Kira wasn't sure if it was because of the signal or the man himself.

But it was enough. Kira could not keep the smile from forming on her face any longer. And the bridge crew apparently could not keep still. They all cheered. Sisko, smiling as well, held up a hand to stop them. "Ensign, this is Captain Sisko."

"Oh, am I glad to hear from you, sir," the ensign responded, the relief audible in his voice. "I don't know what happened, sir, but I'm certainly ready to beam up."

Kira watched Sisko sigh. "Ensign," he began, using a formal but delicate tone, "a changeling managed to infiltrate the crew. The _Defiant_ was severely sabotaged and you and several other crewmen were transported off the ship. I'm afraid the transporter is not yet functional. As soon as it is, we will transport you back to the ship."

There was quiet on the line for a few moments and then desperation. "What about the shuttles, sir?" Salerno asked quickly.

"The changeling used the shuttles' transporters to beam you off, Ensign, and then set the shuttle for self-destruct. There are no shuttles. Are you alright, Ensign?"

Again he was quiet. When he spoke again, there was a slight stutter in his speech. "I . . . I f-found a cave, sir. I found some plants to eat, and I've tried to catch some of the animals. . . ."

"Do the best you can, Ensign," Sisko replied gently. "Have you seen Lieutenant Sopok?"

This time there was no silence and Salerno's voice came through stronger. "No, sir, not since we were on board the _Defiant_." His voice began to crackle near the end, and Kira turned back to her station. They were moving out of range.

"Ensign, I'm going to have to break contact," Sisko said. "We will call again whenever we are in range."

Salerno was quiet again, but finally he replied. His voice was steady. "Aye, sir. Salerno out."

copyright 1998 Gabrielle Lawson


	6. Chapter 6

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Six**

Julian Bashir had no idea how long he'd been unconscious this time. He awoke to darkness. Complete darkness. He wasn't even sure he was conscious, except that he could feel the pain again in his shoulders, especially the left. He couldn't feel his right arm at all. And then he realized that he was laying on it. He tried to move it, so that he could sit up. But when he did, the pain flared again in his left shoulder, and he had to fight to stay conscious. He wasn't sure it was worth it.

Somewhere in his mind though, the doctor in him reminded him that he had to reduce the dislocation. The shoulder muscles had already begun to spasm. The longer he waited the worse it was going to get, both in pain and difficulty. Taking a deep breath, Bashir braced himself and rolled over toward the right. Just as his right arm was free, his left brushed against the wall. Searing pain shot from his shoulder down his arm, up to his neck and across his back. Ignoring the discomfort of the pins and needles, he drew his right arm up quickly to grasp his left. He curled himself into a tighter position, his head and knees pressed against the wall, and gulped for breath as he waited for the flare of pain to die down.

Whether or not he lost consciousness again, he wasn't aware, but the pain did die down, back to the constant agony he felt when his arm was perfectly still. He took another deep breath, and this time he used the wall for support, pushing against it with his back until he was in a sitting position. Panting from the effort, he forced himself to stay conscious.

He imagined he was back in medical school, and that his professor had just asked him to diagnose a patient. Skipping over whatever symptoms of malnutrition he might have, he went straight to the effects of "the patient's" hanging. He still couldn't see anything through the darkness in the room. He would have to use his hands, or hand rather, and try to visualize the damage.

The hardest part was releasing his grip. It felt as though his whole arm would fall off if he let go. _We're waiting, Mr. Bashir_, he heard the professor say. He let go of the arm and felt it drop slightly. He tried to ignore the pain and concentrate on the professor's voice. After a few moments, he gingerly moved his right hand up to the shoulder, feeling for the angle, the misplacement of the bone.

_Patient is experiencing severe pain_, Bashir the doctor thought to the professor. _Probably dislocation._

_I could have told you that!_ Bashir the patient scoffed.

He slid his hand gently down his arm, mentally picturing the angle of the arm. His elbow hung outward away from his body and his forearm was turned in, putting his palm face down on the cold cement floor.

_What is your prognosis?_ the professor asked.

_Well, the muscles have spasmed_, he replied,_ which will make the reduction more difficult. We should sedate the patient._

_Unfortunately, we are fresh out of sedatives today_, the professor commented in a strange, sing-song voice. _Let's begin. Kocher's maneuver would be best, don't you think? _

Gritting his teeth, Bashir gripped his arm tightly again, just above the elbow, and forced the elbow to bend, laying the hand on his lap. The patient nearly fainted, and, with him, the doctor. But the professor clucked at him disapprovingly, and Bashir knew he had to prove himself to the man. He took a deep breath and tensed his body, readying himself for the pain. Then he pulled down on the elbow. He clenched his teeth in order not to cry out.

He had to move quickly, the doctor knew, or the patient would lose consciousness and the arm would never go back into place. The second step required him to rotate the arm outward. The hand rolled over until it was laying face up near his knee. Quickly then he performed the third step as well, drawing the elbow into toward the patient's heaving chest.

He froze there, in that position, feeling the pull against his shoulder but afraid to move again. It was unbearable, the pain he felt. He needed help.

_It is not a difficult procedure, Mr. Bashir_, the professor admonished.

_Then why don't you do it?_ he screamed back at him.

_Because I will not always be there every time you have a dislocation to reduce_, the professor replied matter-of-factly. _The fourth step. What is it?_ Bashir bit his lip and shook his head. He couldn't do it. It hurt too much already. _You must do it_, the professor insisted. _Now what is the fourth step?_

_He can't do it,_ a new voice said. It was a familiar voice, one that had occasionally haunted his dreams. Altovar. The Lethian had nearly killed him with his telepathic coma. _Or he won't. He's not strong enough. He never was. When things get too hard he just gives up like he always has. Isn't that right, Doctor? It's not going to get any easier, you know._

_Yes, he can do it_, another voice said, and Bashir began to wonder if he was losing his mind. He tried telling himself it was just shock. The new voice was soft and gentle, yet low and strong. It spoke with confidence. _He can do it, because he has to. Come on, Julian_, it encouraged. _You can't get back to us until you first get past this. We still need you. _

It was Captain Sisko's voice, and it heartened him. Sisko had confidence in him. He did not want to let him down. Pressing the back of his head against the hard, cold wall, he rotated his arm again, pulling his left hand across his body. He could no longer hear the voices, not even his own as he screamed, waiting for the joint to slip finally back into place. When it finally did, he found he still couldn't let go of his throbbing arm. He felt himself falling over onto his right side and did nothing to stop it.

Just before he lost consciousness again, he thought he heard Sisko's voice. _I told you he could do it. _

* * *

When he awoke again, the room was still dark, and again, he wasn't sure if he was really awake at all. His head felt fuzzy and sweat dripped into his eyes. His breathing was rapid, but he felt like he couldn't get a good breath. He struggled to sit up again and found it even harder than the time before. Every muscle ached from stiffness. And his left shoulder protested the movement as usual. He was disappointed, though not surprised, to find it still full of pain.

He forced himself to move though. He had to know more about where he was. He tucked his left arm into his shirt so that it worked as a makeshift sling. Then he braced his back against the wall and pushed with his legs. Very stiffly, he slid up the wall until he was standing. It made him dizzy, but he leaned against the wall for support. Slowly he walked around the room, feeling the walls for an opening, a window, an air duct, anything at all.

Still no one had told him why he'd been taken from the barracks. He only knew that it had something to do with his English heritage. He hadn't spoken to any of the Germans, so the only reason they could have known that he was English was from the changeling. He was sure that this punishment, or whatever it was, was her doing.

He reached another wall after only a few steps. He turned and followed that wall as well.

Bashir admitted he was scared of the changeling. How could he not be? She was right, in this place, because she chose the form of an SS officer, she had the power of life and death over him. There was no way to fight her, no way to resist that would not end in his death. All that he had left was survival.

Whatever they were going to do to him, he had to survive. If he could live long enough, the _Defiant_ would come for him. Then he could tell them where to find the changeling. Another wall. He turned again.

He thought back to when he had been in the alternate universe with Kira. Odo had been the overseer in charge of ore processing where he was made to work, and he had already expressed his intent to kill him. But an explosion caused a diversion, and Bashir had grabbed a phaser from one of the Bajoran guards. Odo saw this and was just about to fire his own phaser, but Bashir was faster. He fired and the changeling had exploded. He wanted to do the same to the one here.

Part of him felt guilty about that, about wishing harm and death on another sentient being, but it was only part of him. The rest felt justified by hunger, by pain, by cold, by cruelty, by having to stand by and watch others being killed and being unable to stop it. She'd chosen this place for him. It was not an accident that he had ended up in Poland. She'd chosen it to cause him the most pain, the most torment. He hated her.

This time when he reached the next wall, he felt a crack, long and straight. He ran his finger along it as far as he could reach without bending over or stretching his arm up too high. It ran vertically up the wall, and he was tall enough to reach the point where it became horizontal. It had to be a door or a window. But he could feel no draft coming from the crack, and he knew that it was cold outside. He lowered his hand, feeling the area enclosed by the crack. It was cold, like the wall, but metal. A door. There was no handle on this side.

He decided that he was in a cell. But why so dark? he wondered. What time was it anyway? Was it still night? He thought that it must be morning by now. But there was no light from any window. Perhaps there was no window at all. He moved on, feeling the last remaining wall until he reached what he assumed was the place he had started. No windows. No furniture, no fixtures of any kind. Only a door that opened from the outside.

The walking had made him light-headed, so he slid back down the wall. He hadn't eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours--at least that long. He was starting to miss the soup from the other barracks. How long would they keep him in here? he wondered. Would they just let him starve to death?

He waited for what seemed to him like an hour, cradling his arm to his chest. No one came to the door. No one yelled through it. The only sound he heard was his own shallow breath until he fell asleep again.

* * *

Benjamin Sisko was having trouble sleeping again and not even Mozart was helping. It nagged at him that they'd only been able to reach two of the missing crewmen and still, seven had not been found. The second had been Ensign Wu. He was holding out in the Serengeti, mostly because a group of Massai warriors had found him while they were out hunting. They had taken him back to the village and were treating him well. It had been hard telling both him and Salerno that they couldn't transport them back to the ship right away. But at least he knew that they were alive and the crew would be able to find them again as soon as the transporter was functional. The other seven were still completely lost. Were their communicators damaged, or was it more than that?

Bashir worried him more than the others because he knew Bashir had been singled out, abducted from the crowded sickbay. Sisko valued Bashir, as a part of the crew, and as a friend. He was often the voice of reason or conscience in the many staff meetings they held, counteracting Worf's more aggressive nature. His personality always made him seem younger than he was, and yet, many times, Sisko had been surprised by his wisdom. Bashir was, in short, someone Sisko did not want to lose, not that he wanted to lose any of the missing crewmen. And he did not intend to leave this century until all of them were back on board the _Defiant_.

* * *

It was not so much the door opening. To be honest, he hadn't heard that at all. It was, instead, the sudden rush of air into the room that woke Bashir. He hadn't realized it because he had lost consciousness, but the room had been completely sealed, not only sealing the light outside, but the air as well. And while the new air was not exactly fresh and clean, it was a welcome addition to the room. His aching lungs filled themselves with deep full breaths for the first time in hours.

The light on the other hand was not as welcome. Compared to the darkness in the room, the light from the door was blinding. Bashir shielded his eyes weakly with his right hand and tried to see past the door. But the brightness obscured everything. He could make out a silhouette in the doorway. A man. He bent over and placed something on the floor. Bashir could hear the sound of metal as the object touched the cement. The man stepped back and the door closed, plunging the room again into utter darkness.

The fact that he could breathe again bolstered him and gave him strength. His light-headedness began to clear, though that had the unfortunate side effect of bringing the pain in his shoulder and muscles back into focus. Still he thought he could smell something in the air, and it probably had something to do with the object that had been placed on the floor near the door.

He still felt dizzy and didn't really want to try and stand again. Instead, still cradling his arm he scooted across the floor toward where he remembered the door to be. In doing so, he kicked the thing on the floor, and the metal screeched against the cement. He leaned forward, stretching out his good arm toward his feet.

He was surprised when he touched it. It was warm and it was a plate. It was shaped more like a pie pan, but he didn't really care. He could smell the food on it. He could feel the heat, though there wasn't much of it, emanating from the food. His mouth watered. It had been over a week since he'd eaten hot food. He resisted the urge to grab it and start eating. He had no idea what was on the plate. It was as if he'd gone blind.

_Still_, he told himself, _it is food._ And besides, he had eaten the soup. This, he could smell, was better than the soup. And anything was better than starving to death. He crossed his legs in front of him and picked up the plate, setting it carefully in his lap so that it wouldn't tilt over and spill the food. He spread his fingers and slowly lowered his hand over the plate until he felt something. It was hard, but lukewarm to the touch. He picked it up and smelled it. It might have been some kind of bread. He put it back down and felt around the rest of the plate. There was something wet at one corner, and he had to lick it off his finger. It tasted like the soup from the other camp except that it was thicker. To one side of the plate was something else. He guessed meat and thought that he must be hallucinating. It was a small portion and it was very nearly cold, but it was meat.

As he began eating, he had a vague thought of bacteria and even parasites that could be in the meat if it wasn't properly cooked. He thought about the fact that he had not washed his hands in over a week either, and he was using one of them in lieu of utensils. But he quickly pushed the thought away. It had been the same with the soup. He had to eat it. He didn't have a choice. Besides, there was only a possibility of bacteria or parasites or other dangers from eating the food. _Not_ eating the food was a guaranteed way to endanger his health.

The bread was very hard, but he found it softened a bit when he soaked it in the thickened soup. Within minutes he had eaten half of each food item on the plate. He remembered what the Chief had said about the implanted memories he had of the Agrathi prison. He had always saved half of his food, hiding it away behind a loose rock in his cell, just in case the guards decided to stop feeding him for awhile.

But where was Bashir to hide it. The cell was nothing but a cement square with an airtight metal door on one side. There were no loose rocks, no nooks, no cracks to hide the food in. The man was sure to come back and take the plate away. _Better to eat it now_, he thought, _and build up my strength. _

He finished it quickly and placed the plate back on the floor. Then he scooted back again to his spot by the wall. It felt good to have eaten something. It was a better meal than what he had been getting in the barracks. Back on the station, he probably wouldn't have even called what was on that plate food. But he was not on the station anymore. It was different here. He hadn't eaten a full meal in over a week, nor had he showered in that time, or even washed his hands with soap. The only time he had changed clothes was when they gave him the camp uniform to wear. He wondered if he'd even recognize himself if he saw his reflection in a mirror. That thought brought a new worry to mind. Would the _Defiant_ crew recognize him when they came to look for him?

He tried to push the thought away. He had enough to worry about. Breathing, for one thing. He knew now that the cell was completely sealed, and therefore, airtight. He had no idea when they would let him out or even open the door again. He would have to conserve his air and not move around too much. The latter was fairly easy, since all his muscles ached and his shoulder throbbed. But it was hard not to take a deep breath when his lungs wanted it so badly.

* * *

The familiar shape of the European continent was displayed on the viewscreen above the transporter's control console. It looked just the same as the Europe he had grown up with. He could make out a portion of England at the top edge just past France and beyond that, just the slightest glimpse of the southern coast of the Emerald Isle itself--Ireland.

Chief O'Brien focused on the continent for the moment though. He had been working on the transporter for nearly eight hours straight, and he had stood up to stretch his legs a bit. Seeing the continent there, the long boot of Italy, the Spanish peninsula, the slight hint of the British Isles, it was almost like they'd come back to Earth for a visit.

From this high in orbit, there was little difference between the two Europes four centuries apart. The land itself had changed little, only the structures on the land had adjusted with time, and, in Europe, that had only been some of the structures. Europe, even in the twenty-fourth century, valued its history and sense of the ancient. There were castles in Europe that had been standing for nearly a millennium. Not even the World Wars had knocked them down.

There was a large transparent circle over the surface of the continent on the viewscreen, and O'Brien knew it was to show the sensor and communications ranges. But there were no other points of light. No comm signals. O'Brien sighed. He had hoped they would have found more by now. The sensors, though still weak, had improved. No comm signals meant simply that no crewmembers were down there.

It saddened him that they still hadn't found all the crewmembers. Julian was one of the ones still unaccounted for. It would take several hours before they passed over Europe completely and could scan a new area, and O'Brien was going off duty in two hours. They would be over the Atlantic by then.

But he was also glad that no signals had been found. While the picture on the viewscreen looked calm and peaceful, he had paid attention in history class--and he'd spent enough hours in the holosuites with Bashir, fighting off the German incursions across the channel--to know what was going on down there. Ensign Thomas had, of course, briefed the senior staff on the basics of the war. Europe _was_ the war, well, half of it anyway.

There on the screen was a Europe under occupation by the Third Reich. By 1943, they would have had nearly the whole continent under their control. O'Brien stared at the screen harder. And it made him angry. The sun was shining brightly and the sky was clear. O'Brien could even see the mountains, the Alps and the Pyreněes. It was wrong. It was perhaps Europe's darkest hours, and yet, it still looked like paradise.

* * *

The burst of air woke Bashir again, and the light from outside again hurt his eyes. He hadn't remembered falling asleep. This time there were several silhouettes against the light. He couldn't tell how many. He heard a very authoritative voice say something, in German, of course, and then one of the men stepped into the room. His body blocked the door so that the brightness faded and Bashir could see again. He wore a uniform like the SS officers, but he didn't look like the one the changeling had been impersonating that first night.

Bashir braced his back against the wall again and pushed with his legs until he was standing. It was easier this time, since his muscles had had a little time to relax, but he felt dizzy once he was up all the way. A second man stepped into the room. Bashir fought with his own body to show no reaction, but he felt his legs begin to shake. He was afraid. Afraid that they would hang him on the post again, or worse. They had brought him here for a reason. They were not going to just let him go now.

The two men moved quickly and each took one of Bashir's arms. Bashir had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. He felt his knees turning to rubber and tried to brace them again. But they were moving too fast. The two men were pulling him toward the door. Bashir didn't want them to know about his shoulder. They might exploit such a weakness. So he stepped ahead quickly, ignoring the dizziness, the pain, and the instability of his own legs. He wanted to stay even with them and not let them pull on his arms.

The light in the hallway was still too bright for Bashir's eyes which had grown accustomed to the severe darkness of the cell. He could not make out any details of the corridor because he had to squint against the light, but he could feel the closeness of the two men. Apparently the passageway was rather thin. Bashir was thankful when the one on the left released his arm and moved to walk behind him rather than at the side. The man on the right tightened his grip, and his own arm kept brushing against Bashir's.

At each step the light became more bearable, and Bashir could make out the numbers on the doors he passed. Other cells. He could also hear some of the prisoners inside them, groaning softly or crying out. He also thought he heard a rhythmic chant, perhaps a Jewish prayer, behind one of the doors he passed.

They took him up some stairs and down another, wider hallway. There were no cells here and the light was different, more natural. He was led into a small, brightly lit room. There was a window there and Bashir could see the sun shining into the yard. He saw the wooden wall and three posts. He shuddered. Three men were hanging there.

There were two men already in the room in the room. One sat, while the other stood stiffly against the wall. They weren't SS. Bashir wasn't sure what they were, but they were not wearing the same uniforms as the others. Instead of the gray and black of the SS, they each had on a long brown leather coat. It was buttoned up high to conceal most of their other clothes, but it looked as though they were wearing regular suits underneath.

There was another chair in the center of the room. One of the guards hurried in to push it off to the side near the only other furniture there. A table stood near one wall. A clear glass pitcher of water sat upon it, with two glasses. There was also a plate of food. Real food, not like that in the camp or even what he'd been given in the cell. It looked like turkey or chicken and potatoes.

Bashir felt his stomach tighten, and his mouth started to water. But more than the food, he wanted the water. He hadn't had water in several days. He knew he was dehydrating. There was also a clock on one wall. It was nearly 2:30.

The other guard led him to the center of the room where the chair had been and then stepped away. The sitting man watched him closely, a half-smile gracing his round face. The man beside him, took a small step forward. "_Zieh Dich aus!_" he commanded.

Bashir did not know what to do. The man had spoken in German. They knew he was English. He wondered why they didn't find anyone to translate like the SS man in the barracks. He hesitated a moment and then spoke, "I don't understand." He said it very quietly, just loud enough to be heard.

The sitting man lifted his chin slightly and the guards came back to him. Very roughly, they began to undress him, stripping off his shirt first. Fearing for his shoulder more than his pride, Bashir helped them, trying to guide the shirt off without pulling on his left arm. Even still, the movement was enough to cause his whole left side to erupt in pain. His sight began to blur. He bit his lip again, swallowing any sound he might make. They stripped away his pants last and then pressed down on his shoulders until he was kneeling naked before them in the center of the room.

The room seemed to be spinning, and Bashir tasted blood from where his teeth were digging into his lip. But he didn't fall, and after a few minutes, his sight returned to him as well. His shoulder still hurt, since now he couldn't support it at all without giving away his injury. But he was thankful it had not dislocated again. The air in the room was cool on his skin, and he began to shiver.

The two guards left then, and the standing man walked slowly in a circle around Bashir. Bashir watched him as well as he could without turning his head.

"_Wie heißt du?_" the sitting man asked, in a gentle voice.

Bashir was afraid to speak. Had the undressing been a punishment for speaking before or simply normal procedure?

"_Wie heißt du?_" the second man repeated into Bashir's ear. His voice was louder and definitely more menacing.

"_Warum bist du hier?_" the sitting man said. He still spoke lightly. "_Was machen Sie in Polen?_"

"I don't understand," Bashir finally breathed again.

"_Ich weiß, daß Du das verstehst!_" came the harsh words in his ear.

The sitting man smiled then, a full smile. He stood and walked over to the small table. He stood to one side so that he did not block Bashir's view as he slowly poured a glass of water. He sat down again, and, still smiling, he sipped the water. _"Sind Sie durstig? Möchten Sie etwas Wasser?_"

_"Zeigen Sie uns, daß Sie uns verstehen, dann bekommen Sie Wasser._"

Bashir stared from one to the other, his brows furrowed in confusion. He couldn't understand them. They just kept talking, one with his quiet voice between sips of apparently delicious water, and the other more threateningly from behind him or to either side. The sitting man eventually drained his glass and went to place it back on the table. This time he took a pinch of food and tucked it into his mouth. He licked off his fingers afterwards.

"_Sie Sind wahrscheinlich auch hungrig, nicht wahr? Dann sagen Sie es mir einfach_," he said. "_Sagen Sie es mir und sie können etwas zum Essen haben. Wie lange ist es her, daß Sie eine richtige Mahlzeit hatten? Sie zittern ja. Sie frieren bestimmt. Möchten Sie Ihre Kleider zurück haben? Sie müssen es nur sagen, dann gehören Sie wieder Ihnen_."

Bashir's knees felt weak. The room had grown darker. Outside the sun had set. He glanced again at the clock. The long hand was just about to touch the twelve. It was five o'clock. He glanced at the empty chair and then back to the table of food. He could understand now what the man was doing, tempting him with food and drink. But to what end? What did they want to know?

"_Ah! Ihre Beine werde müde!_" the sitting man's smile widened into a grin. "_Das ist ein sehr bequemer Stuhl. Gehen sie hin, setzen Sie sich_."

The door opened and another man, dressed the same, stepped in. He was a very tall man, with handsome features and a glint in his eye. He said nothing but walked to the corner of the room and stood there against the wall. The other two men had turned to watch him as well, and Bashir got the idea that this new man was their superior.

The man nodded and the two men continued. The one sat down again and the other continued his pacing. It was making Bashir dizzy, either that or it was simply weakness and the need to sit down. The door remained open and Bashir could hear footsteps coming.

The two guards appeared in the doorway then, carrying another small table and a chair. The tall man directed them over to a corner near the window. They set the table down and left. Another person entered, dressed differently than all the others. It took Bashir a moment to realize that it was a woman. She wore stripes, like Bashir, but on a dress and coat rather than shirt or pants. Her head was shaved, leaving only dark stubble. She was emaciated, but she moved quickly, her eyes never looking up from the floor. She was carrying a tray with more plates and another glass. She moved to the new table and set it with two places. Then she went to the other table and removed the plate of food that was there. She set another down in its place, and Bashir could see the steam rising off of it. She shuffled quickly out of the room again. The two guards followed her and closed the door behind them.

The air in the room now began to fill with the smell of the food. Potatoes again and meat, but this time it was pork. It appeared to be breaded. There were also several slices of dark brown bread. It looked soft. There was even a small plate of butter to go with it.

The harsh man stopped pacing and pulled the new chair up to the table near the window. He sat down and smiled, picking up his fork and knife. The sitting man turned to look at the tall man who was sitting now as well--though Bashir couldn't remember them bringing in another chair. The empty chair still sat near the table with the water. The tall man nodded and the sitting man pulled his own chair over to the table. "_Sind Sie sicher, daß Sie sich nicht zu uns setzen möchten?_" he asked, looking at Bashir with a snicker. Then he turned to his place, and the two men began eating.

* * *

_Greenland_, Sisko thought angrily. _What could live in Greenland?_ Two more signals had been found there earlier in the day. The more he thought about it, the more enraged he became. He finally had to leave the bridge and return to his quarters so that his mood would not infect the crew.

He was starting to get an idea of what the shapeshifter had done. Wu and Salerno were the exception, something gone wrong. Survivors only by accident. The Atacama, the Serengeti, Galapagos, K2? No one was supposed to survive there. The changeling had beamed the crewmembers to their deaths. Greenland was a wasteland of ice. Starfleet uniforms couldn't possibly protect someone from the cold there. The two crewmen had not answered their comm signals, and Sisko hadn't expected them to. They had frozen to death, probably within hours of their transports.

Only the command crew, and a few others on Kira's team, knew of the locations of the signals at this point, and Sisko decided it must stay that way. Even Kira, who had no reason to be familiar with Earth geography, had not rejoiced at finding the signals. The sensors were continuing to improve. She could read the conditions on the island. She knew they were dead as well.

There was a small chirp and then Kira's voice came over the comm system. "Kira to Sisko."

Sisko counted to three in order to calm down a bit before answering. "Sisko here. What is it, Major?"

"Two more, sir. This time in, um, North America."

North America? There was a chance there. Perhaps another exception like Salerno and Wu. "Where in North America, Major?"

"I'll patch the sensors through to your quarters, sir. Just a moment."

There was a pause and Sisko pictured Kira up on the bridge fighting to get the computer to cooperate and allow power to his viewscreen. He felt his pulse pick up and knew he was getting his hopes up. He tried to tell himself that he shouldn't, but it was too late. Finally the blank screen came to life. A map of North America came into view with two small pinpricks of light in the general area of the Northwest Territories. In his own time, Sisko knew the area to be fairly evenly populated with large tracts of forests and wildlife preserves as well. But this was the twentieth century and he just wasn't sure. "Can you show me population centers, Major, on the northern part of the continent?"

"Give me a second, Captain," Kira answered.

A moment later the new map showed up, this time marked with cities. Some areas, especially in the south were heavily dotted while the area of the signals was clear for miles. "Who are they, Major?"

Kira lowered her voice. "Nohtsu and Fellini."

_Wonderful_, Sisko thought. Nohtsu was not human. On the one hand, that made him glad she was in a sparsley populated area, but on the other hand, it lessened the chances of her survival. "Did they answer our hails?"

"In a way, sir."

Sisko had been sitting on his bunk, leaning back against the wall, but now he sat up, carefully ducking under the bed above him so as not to hit his head. "Explain."

"I'd rather come to your quarters, sir," she replied. She apparently didn't want the bridge crew to overhear.

"Fine."

Sisko was surprised though when she appeared at his door so quickly. It was barely two minutes before his door buzzed. He stood and called her in. Kira stepped inside, her features tight, not revealing anything.

"I made the calls from my quarters," she explained once the door had closed, "just in case. We got nothing from Fellini, but it seemed that Nohtsu was opening and closing the channel. Apparently she can't speak. We worked out a signal of sorts. I've explained the situation to her. She's wounded, sir, but she's managed to find some shelter. Fellini is dead. She saw his body."

"Has anyone seen her?" Sisko asked.

"No," Kira answered, "nor has she seen anyone else."

Sisko nodded, not knowing what else to say. "How many does that leave? Four?"

Kira gave a swift nod. "If we count the changeling."

"I doubt we'll be lucky enough to find a comm signal for the changeling," Sisko remarked, sitting back down on the bunk. "Where are we _not_ looking?"

Kira pulled up the stool to sit as well. "Well, the ice caps and the open oceans. We've covered all the land masses."

Sisko sighed. "I hate to say it, but maybe we should sweep the oceans and the poles."

Kira nodded, but said, "I don't think we should stop scanning the continents, though. One of them might have a damaged communicator. They might be able to repair it and then the signal would show up."

Sisko smiled. "Julian did say he took engineering extension courses."

* * *

The language had changed, but the situation hadn't. It was now seven o'clock and very dark outside. The guards and the woman prisoner had come back an hour before to take away the table and chair near the window and to replace the lone plate of food on the other table. A new, fresh pitcher of water replaced the other half-empty one. And then the pacing and questioning had begun again. This time it was in Polish, or Czech. Bashir could not tell the difference.

The tall man was standing again, but Bashir could not see the chair he left in order to do so. He didn't give it much thought. Perhaps the guards had taken it out as well. The one empty chair still sat by the table with the water pitcher, and Bashir longed for it even more. He needed the chair, the food, the water. His mouth was too dry. His tongue kept sticking to the roof of his mouth. He was so hungry he felt nauseous, but then he was growing accustomed to that feeling.

His legs were quickly becoming the center of attention. It was harder than roll call, he decided. Roll call hadn't lasted for four hours, at least not since he had been in the camp. Two, maybe even three, but not four and a half. His calves and feet had fallen asleep, but his knees ached from the pressure. He wished that he could stand. He wished he was at roll call.

He couldn't even shift his position. He had tried it once and received for his trouble a sharp blow to the groin. He'd fallen forward, doubled over in pain, only to be kicked in the ribs repeatedly while the pacing man was screaming "_schnell_" at him and gesturing for him to get up.

It was the first time they'd hit him since he was brought to this room, the first time either of them had lost his composure. They were growing frustrated. The sitting man continued to speak kindly, tempting him with the water and food. But the pacing man was much more vocal now, spitting threats in German that Bashir couldn't understand. The tall man merely watched and never said a word.

"_Mit wem arbeitest Du? Wer ist Dein Kontaktmann draußen?_" the pacing man shouted into his ear. "_Was meinst Du, was Dir das bringt?_"

"_Jeśli mi wszystko powiesz, on ci nic złego nie zrobi_" the sitting man said. "_Powiedź, że jesteś głodny, i damy Ci jeść. To takie proste._"

The man's voice was almost hypnotic, but the words still meant nothing to Bashir. He knew what they were trying to do though. It was almost classic. He had even seen Sisko and Odo team up and do it to Quark. Good cop, bad cop. Isn't that what it was called? One threatened, one promised help. Both wanted the same thing. But without the words, Bashir couldn't know what they wanted.

He tried to focus his attention on the floor. But his eyes kept drawing back to the table or the chair, only to be caught up again by the man circling around him like a vulture. The circling man had an object, like a short, ornate cane or walking stick, with a decorated knob on the high end. He kept snapping it into his leather-gloved hand as a further distraction and an illustration of his threats.

"_Czy wiesz co Ci się stanie jeśli nie odpowiesz_" the sitting man was saying. "_Mój kolega zaczyna być zły. We własnym interesie, zacnij wspołpracować zanim będzie za późno._"

This went on for another forty-five minutes, each of the two speaking or screaming a different language while the tall man watched silently from his place in the corner. He was seated again. Bashir forgot about the sitting man and his partner and watched the tall man now, who was watching the pacing man. Where had the chair come from? The door hadn't opened. As he watched then, the man dropped his eyes to look directly at him. As Bashir stared, the man's pupils grew until they blocked out the iris and the white of his eyes, leaving only blackness. All the sound seemed to drain from the room as Bashir watched. He realized now that this was the changeling. The eyes stayed black for only a moment. The man smiled and his eyes returned to normal.

From the corner of his eye Bashir noticed that the man had stopped pacing around him. Suddenly the sound came back to him, filling his ears. "_Ich werde dafür sorgen, daß Du mich verstehst, Du jüdischer Bastard!_"

Before Bashir could even look up, the stick came down hard, hitting him in the back of the head. Bashir fell, unable to stop himself, unable to even comprehend that he had fallen. More blows descended on him, on his back, his shoulders, and his head. He had no time to bite his lip. He couldn't think fast enough to clench his teeth. The cries simply came out of him and he screamed. All other sensation left him. There was only pain and the constant blows pounding him from above. He wasn't sure how long it lasted. And then he heard a word, clear and loud, like a buoy, something he could hold on to.

"Enough," the tall man said from the corner, and the beating stopped. He knocked twice on the door and the guards returned. Bashir felt them pull on his arms and then the room and everything else became as black as the changeling's eyes had been.

* * *

She waited until the guards had dragged the doctor's unconscious form out the door. When she was alone with the two Gestapo agents she spoke. "Gentlemen, I suggest you get some rest." Her voice was low and masculine to match the human form she had taken. "We will begin again in four hours."

The shorter man with the round face spoke up next. "It appears he does not understand either language. He's hungry enough. He would have asked for the food if he understood. What good is a spy who can't understand the language?"

"But what is an Englishman who only speaks English doing in Poland during a war?" The changeling countered.

"Perhaps he is a pilot," the other man suggested. He was much calmer now, and one would not suspect that just a few moments before he could have beaten a man to death. It had been quite a show. "He should be in a prisoner-of-war camp."

"He doesn't even look English," the other said. "He might be from Palestine."

She challenged his remark. "He was found in the ghetto wearing very strange clothing adorned with gold. There was no wreckage, no parachute." She straightened then. No more speculation. If they were going to continue at midnight, she would have to regenerate now. "Plane or no plane, Palestine or no Palestine, spy or no spy, it is our duty to find out what this foreign Jew was doing in a Polish ghetto. We will continue in four hours." With that, she turned and walked out the door.

She did not have to go far. Few of the rooms, except those in the cellar, were in use at this time. She could 'sleep' unnoticed in any of them. She paused outside one door and looked down the hall to make sure no one was watching. She turned the handle on the door. It was locked. Perfect. She lowered herself to the ground and slipped quickly beneath the door, leaving it locked. She didn't bother to reform on the other side.

Four hours was not a long time really. She felt she needed more. She had spent many hours the last few days flying to Berlin and back to set things up. At first she had thought her knowledge of this planet and its history to be exemplary, but she hadn't expected to be stuck on it as she was now. She had known about the war and the Nazis, even the Holocaust, but it was the minute details that had tripped her up.

She'd had to do some research in order to fit in with the SS. That was not too difficult though, considering she had replaced an actual individual. This Gestapo bit was harder. She had simply chosen a generic shape of no one in particular and then had to fabricate an identity and the authority to do as she pleased. This required a trip to Berlin to study papers and orders and mannerisms as well. It was a lot of work. It left her fatigued, but also confident that she would not be questioned.

Satisfied that things should work smoothly now she pulled herself up onto the shelves that lined one wall. She'd seen some large, overly-curious rodents running around the camp on other nights and did not want to have to bother with them now when she was so tired. She situated herself in a corner and altered her appearance to fit in with the wood. Now, if someone did manage to open the door before midnight, she wouldn't have to worry about being seen. Assured now that she was safe for the night, she let herself rest peacefully.

* * *

Bashir woke up once again to darkness, wondering just what had happened. He was afraid to move, in spite of the uncomfortable and painful position he found himself in. His whole body hurt and his head felt like it just might explode. He was glad that he couldn't see anything. He was sure the walls would be spinning around him. His left shoulder was once again demanding his attention. He could feel that it was dislocated again. If he moved it would only be worse. He didn't want to ever move again. The cement floor was cold beneath him, and he realized he was not wearing any clothing.

_You're not going to just give up, are you?_

Bashir raised his head to see who had spoken, and then dropped it again. Even without the use of his eyes, he was dizzy. He groaned and closed his eyes again, hoping the voice would just go away.

_Well, are you? That's what they want, you know, Jules . . . I mean Julian. _

Bashir opened his eyes again, knowing that there was nothing to see. But the voice, his father's voice, had sounded so real, so near.

_It's what they want,_ the voice echoed.

Images and sounds forced their way back into his memory. A table of food, fresh water. A ragged woman in a striped dress. Black eyes. Black eyes. The changeling. The changeling smiled and then . . . and then everything fell apart. The pacing man had hit him with something, and he hadn't stopped until the changeling had told him to. He wondered why he--she--had stopped them. Didn't she want him to die?

_Julian_, another voice called. He had expected Sisko, but this time it was the Chief with his lilting Irish accent._ Julian, get up. You've got to fix that arm._

_I don't think I can do it again,_ Julian thought to his friend. _They'll probably just pull it out again anyway._

_Would you rather them pull on it while it's out?_ O'Brien argued. _Besides, it doesn't hurt near as much the second time. Come on, sit up._

_Easy for you to say_, Bashir snapped at him. _You had me to take care of you._

_Right,_ O'Brien agreed, _and you've got you to take care of you. So get to it. _

Bashir wasn't exactly sure why, but he began to move, sliding himself across the cold floor until he met a wall. Each inch felt like a mile, but he made it.

_That's it_, O'Brien encouraged. _Now sit up. _

"I must be in shock," Bashir mumbled aloud as he pushed himself up against the wall.

_Or I wouldn't be here, right?_ the Chief finished for him. _I'll be here as long as you need me. I've seen you stand up to a band of Jem'Hadar without flinching, Julian. You can do this. _

Bashir started to draw in a deep breath, but then remembered that the cell was sealed. How long would they keep him in here? He would have to be careful about things like that.

_Do it quickly_, O'Brien suggested. _Don't think, just do it. _

Bashir clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes closed as he took hold of his left arm.

_On the count of three, _O'Brien said.

_Get me out of here_, Julian pleaded to him.

_We will_, the Irishman whispered. And then he began to count. _One, two, . . . . _

Julian did not hear him count to three. He did what he had been told. Instead of using four distinct movements, he moved his arm quickly and fluidly until, agonizingly, it popped back into position. When it did, he let himself fall back over onto his right side. He lay still but he did not lose consciousness right away.

_I told you it wasn't as bad the second time_, O'Brien spoke softly.

It was only a few hours before they came for him again. A moment's worry came to him that his arm would be dislocated again, but they forced him to stand and walk back to the room on his own. The room was different this time: no table, no water, no food. Just the chair sitting in the center under the light. The pacing man was there, still holding his stick. The sitting man, who was no longer sitting, was dressed now in a white lab coat. He smiled as Bashir entered. But it was the pacing man who spoke. "Won't you sit down?" His voice was heavily accented, but the words were unmistakably in English.

Before he had a chance to answer, the guard who was with him led Bashir forcibly to the chair and pushed him down by his shoulders. His hands were placed on the arms of the chair, and the man in the lab coat tied them in place.

"I do hope you slept well," the pacing man continued, still speaking pleasantly. But there was nothing pleasant about his countenance. "We have some questions to ask you. Do you understand me now?"

Bashir was still groggy and very sore from the beating he'd received. But he forced himself to concentrate on the man's voice, his words. Still, it seemed like too much effort to try and speak. He nodded.

"Good," the man said, snapping the stick sharply into his palm. The guard was at Bashir's feet, tying his ankles to the legs of the chair. When he was finished he left and the other man, the third, the changeling, entered. There was a slight sheen to his face.

"Begin," was all he said.

"What is your name?"

Bashir looked at his wrists and fear flashed through his mind. They were going to torture him. They would not have tied him otherwise. They had not tied him earlier. He had thought the hanging and the beating had been torture enough. Apparently the Germans did not.

"Your name," the man demanded more strongly.

Bashir's heart pounded as he tried to think. Should he tell them? Or should he lie? He knew he couldn't tell them the real truth anyway. _She already knows your name_, he heard someone say. It was Garak's voice this time. _What can it hurt? _

Bashir opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His mouth was too dry. He closed it again, took a deep breath and then swallowed. He tried again. "Bashir, Julian Bashir."

"Where did you come from?"

_Best stick to the truth as much as possible_, Garak suggested. _Just make sure it's the right truth._

_The right truth?_ Bashir asked him silently.

_The one that doesn't get you killed. _

Another deep breath. "I'm. . . I'm from England," Bashir said. They knew that already, too.

The man looked a little confused. "Not from Palestine?"

Bashir shook his head.

He shrugged and moved on. "Why are you here?"

Bashir looked up at him, forgetting the changeling's warning about making eye-contact. Why was the man asking him? They had brought him here. "I was arrested," was all he could think to say.

Apparently the answer took them by surprise. No one said anything for a moment. Then the third man said something quietly in German. The pacing man nodded and then asked, "What were you doing in Poland?"

_Good question_, Garak said.


	7. Chapter 7

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Seven**

Sisko stifled the yawn he felt and watched the viewscreen. The Pacific Ocean was below them, but they were nearing the Chinese coast--Manchuria, if he remembered his geography. True to her word, Kira had her team searching the oceans. No one had turned up in the Pacific, not even on the various island groups they had passed over. Three more. Bashir, Amitai, and Ephraim.

"O'Brien to Sisko."

It had been very quiet on the bridge and Sisko almost jumped when the comm signal came through.

"What is it, Chief?" Sisko asked. "Good news, I hope."

"Yes, sir, it is." The Irishman's voice had a even more distinctive lilt to it. Sisko decided it wasn't just because he was well-rested. "We've got a transporter!"

Sisko sat up straight in the chair, all fatigue having left him. The transporter. They could bring their people home now, for better or for worse. "Good work, Chief."

"Well, I really can't take the credit, sir. I just woke up after all."

"Well, then you've got a good crew working for you," Sisko said. He felt happier now that the transporter was fixed, but he sobered when he realized where they were. Southeast Asia. The closest signals would be those in Nepal. K2. Probably frozen to death. They would be beaming up corpses. Still, he kept his voice even when he ordered, "Helm, bring us to within transporter range of Nepal, thrusters at maximum speed."

Of course, it would still be dark over Nepal, but hovering in the night sky over Nepal wouldn't be as risky as hovering over Europe or America. Few people would be able to spot the dimly lit ship.

"Aye, sir. Laying in course."

"ETA?"

"Six minutes."

"Chief," Sisko said, hoping that O'Brien was still on the line, "meet me in the transporter room in five minutes. Have a medical team stand-by as well."

"Aye, sir. Should we wake the major, sir?"

Sisko thought for a moment. It had been Kira's task to find the missing crew members. She would want to be there. But she needed the rest. They all did. "No, let her sleep. Have Commander Dax join us though."

"Aye, sir." The comm line went dead. Sisko stood to stretch his legs. "Lieutenant," he said, addressing the crewman sitting in Kira's seat. "You have the bridge. Inform me of our arrival over Nepal."

"Aye, sir."

He arrived at the transporter room in less than five minutes, but it didn't matter. O'Brien and Dax were already there. One would not have guessed from the appearance of the room that the transporter was at all functioning. Panels were open and circuits exposed. But the pad looked fine, if a little dirty. The controls were lit and apparently in working order.

O'Brien appeared a bit self-conscious and seemed to know what Sisko was thinking. "We should have her cleaned up in a few hours, Captain. But I thought you'd want to use it as soon as it was operational."

"You thought right, Chief. They've been gone too long already."

"Bridge to Captain Sisko."

"Sisko here."

"Entering transporter range, sir."

"Thank you. Sisko out." Sisko looked to O'Brien, who moved silently to the command console. He checked the readings and then nodded.

"Who is it?" Dax asked.

"Smith," O'Brien replied. "I've got a lock." Just then the door opened and the medical team filed in with two stretchers.

Sisko turned away from them to watch the pad. It was time. "Energize." He felt his pulse begin to quicken and realized he was getting his hopes up. There was a chance--given, it was an infinitesimal one--that Smith could have survived. Somehow. Dax was watching, too. She felt the same way.

Suddenly a shimmering form coalesced on the pad. It was only a meter or so tall, not full height, but then Sisko hadn't expected Smith to be standing. Slowly the form began to take the shape of a human sitting with legs tucked up close toward the chest. Two arms wrapped around the knees. And then there was a face, and the shimmering faded away. His hands didn't quite seem real, shrunken and blackened as they were from frostbite. His face was discolored as well. His eyes, still open, stared blindly back at Sisko and Dax. Crewman Tristan Smith. Frozen solid.

It was obvious the man was dead, but the nurse moved forward with a tricorder anyway. _Just doing her job_, Sisko told himself. It was going to be awkward getting him back to sickbay on a stretcher. "Chief, can we beam him to sickbay?"

The chief didn't answer right away. He was still staring at the crewman on the platform. He shivered visibly and then seemed to wake up. "No, sir. Sorry. But we've really only got limited use. Intraship beaming is a trickier thing."

Sisko rubbed his eyes. Then he looked to the nurse. She put her tricorder away without saying anything. Sisko turned away, not wanting to watch as she and the others put the man on one of the stretchers. He heard the door open and close and they were gone. The nurse was still there with one of the med-techs, their faces ashen as they waited for the second crewman to be transported.

"Do we have a lock on Syra?"

"Yes, sir," O'Brien answered, his voice very much sobered now. Sisko studied the faces of those in the room. He was sure their expressions only mirrored his own. "Energize."

The second form appeared on the platform much as the first had, only this time, Syra was not sitting. She had apparently fallen and was more or less in a lying position. She, too, was dead. Frozen to death days before. The nurse again checked the tricorder, and then she and the med-tech lifted the stiff form onto the stretcher. The door opened and closed again, leaving only Dax and the chief in the room with the captain. None of them wanted to speak.

"I believe we'll have better luck in the Serengeti," Sisko said quietly. "Tell the bridge to set course. Wu is waiting."

"And Nitzsche?" Dax asked.

Sisko didn't answer.

* * *

"I told you," Bashir gasped through clenched teeth, "I was a tennis player." He didn't look at the men anymore, any of them. Instead he stared at the ends of his outstretched and shaking fingers. Each one was bloody from where his fingernails had been ripped out.

Ironically, it was the sitting man--who was no longer sitting--who had done it. He had been the 'good cop.' Apparently he also liked inflicting pain on others. And it was an incredible amount of pain, too, considering the amount of nerve endings in the finger. It didn't help that the sitting man had taken his time, shoving the blade beneath each of his fingernails and slowly tearing them loose one by one. Bashir had clenched his teeth so hard to keep from screaming that he thought his jaw would break.

"Poland was conquered nearly four years ago. Why would a tennis player come here?" The pacing man asked still walking in circles around Bashir. It was making him dizzy.

Sticking to Garak's sage advice, Bashir told the truth. "I got stuck here."

"How did you come here?"

"Professional tennis players travel," he told him. "I've been many places. Paris, Budapest, Johannesburg, San Francisco. . . ."

"Why would you come to Poland in the middle of a war?"

"Bad timing," Julian whispered. Of course, he knew he shouldn't have said it. But he didn't know what else to say. He could not tell them the real truth. That would get him killed, either for getting smart with his captors or for being a lunatic.

The pacing man lost his patience. He grabbed the back of Bashir's head by the hair and yanked it back until Bashir could almost see the wall behind him. "Who are you working with?" he asked again. He had probably asked that question fifteen times already.

"I'm not working with anyone," Julian answered with effort. "I'm not a spy."

The third man, the changeling, stood up from his chair--this time the chair itself remained--and walked over to stand in front of Bashir. "Tennis players," he said, stressing each heavily-accented word, "need their hands, don't they?"

The pacing man released Bashir's hair and Julian looked up at the changeling, meeting his gaze. He forgot about the pain in his fingers and even his shoulder. All that was only temporary. The changeling had something else in mind. Doctors needed their hands, too.

"Tell me, are you right or left-handed?" __

Now would be a good time to begin lying, Garak's voice sounded inside Julian's mind. But he found his mouth was dry and he couldn't answer.

"Right or left?" The changeling repeated. The sitting man, the torturer, stepped forward, his white lab coat specked with drops of red. This time, he was holding a hammer in his hands.

Bashir looked away, back to his hands. He needed his hands. Both of them. He couldn't be a surgeon without his hands. The arms of the chair were so flat. His hands would be crushed.

"If you don't answer, I will choose for you."

Bashir swallowed and tried to think. If he said right, would they break it? Or would they think he was lying and break the other? Then he looked up again, right into the changeling's gleaming eyes. She was enjoying this. She--or he--cocked his head slightly with just the hint of smile. "_Links_," he said.

Bashir was frozen. He could do little more than shake his head and ball his hand into a fist. But he was weak, from hunger and from the recent torment, and the sitting man did not seem to have a problem with flattening his hand against the arm of the chair.

This time, clenching his teeth didn't help, and Bashir's screams woke some of the prisoners in the cellar below. Eventually they tuned it out and went back to sleep. It was nothing they hadn't heard before.

* * *

Captain Sisko pushed away the fatigue he felt. He was not going to miss a transport, even if it meant missing another hour of sleep. Kira, beside him, felt the same way. She'd already expressed her displeasure at not being woken up for the first transports.

"Ready to transport, sir," O'Brien reported.

"He won't be seen?" Sisko asked as he rubbed his eyes with one hand. It was nearly dawn in the Massai village. The villagers would be rising soon.

"No, sir. He's clear."

"Energize." Sisko watched the form appear on the platform. Though he knew that Wu had been taken in by the Massai, he still was not prepared for the crewman's appearance. It should not have been surprising that he was out of uniform, but the traditional Massai dress was still unexpected. Even more so was the orange clay that covered the lieutenant from head to toe.

As Wu stepped, barefoot, off the platform, Sisko held out his hand. "Welcome back, Lieutenant," he said.

Wu had to shift the staff he was carrying to his left hand in order the shake the captain's proffered hand. "Good to be back, Captain," he replied with a grin. He shook Kira's hand as well.

"Are you alright?" Sisko asked.

"Fine, sir," Wu answered though he now looked a little nervous. "Just a bit homesick, I guess. It'll be nice to get back in uniform."

"I've got a lock on Nitzsche," O'Brien interrupted.

Sisko, realizing he'd been smiling, stopped and turned back to the Chief. "No chance of him being seen?"

"Sensors aren't very accurate, but I'm not picking up any other readings."

Sisko nodded and turned to Wu. "Report to sickbay. Let Nurse Baines check you out. If she says you're okay, you can return to your quarters."

Wu seemed to be paying more attention to the Chief and the transporter platform than to his captain though. But apparently, he had been listening. "I'd rather stay, sir."

Sisko wasn't sure if he should allow it. He had his doubts about Nitzsche. But he finally nodded his approval. O'Brien caught the nod as well and began the next transport.

This time, no human form appeared on the platform. Instead the sparkling lights of the transporter effect only deposited a small scattering of white bones and torn fabric. Nitzsche's comm badge lay near a few of the rib bones--some still in position--its surface smudged with dark, dried blood. Nitzsche's skull stared blankly up toward the ceiling.

The nurse hesitated a moment before visibly steeling himself to move forward with his tricorder. "I'm picking up residual traces of mammalian DNA, Captain. Feline. Lion perhaps." __

That would explain the skeleton, Sisko thought, feeling the fatigue rush over him again. _Hell of a way for a Starfleet officer to go--eaten by lions before mankind ever left the atmosphere_.

Kira's expression never wavered, but she turned away.

"I, um," Wu began, obviously quite uncomfortable, "guess I should go to sickbay now. Permission to leave, Captain?"

Sisko could not take his eyes off the skeleton before him. "Granted."

* * *

Julian Bashir couldn't really see anymore. His tormentors, the room, the world swam around him in a blur of pain. But he could hear. Both of the Germans had left him when the door opened. They were talking now with the changeling. He couldn't understand them. They were not speaking English. None of them sounded happy, but Bashir didn't care about that. They were not touching him. That was all that mattered. He let his head fall back against the chair, closed his eyes, and tried to slow his breathing.

But it was only a momentary respite. The unhappy speaking stopped, and the Germans returned to him. Bashir opened his eyes, expecting to see them preparing some new torture for him. Instead the pacing man was untying his hands. A white form hovered near the floor; the other German was untying his ankles. They were releasing him.

The changeling stood in front of him. When he spoke, he did so slowly, as if knowing that Bashir would have a hard time listening. "The Gestapo has decided," he said, still using a German accent, "that you are not worth our time. _Bring ihn nach unten._"

The last part was lost on Bashir, but the Germans understood. The sitting man in his red-speckled lab coat, gripped Bashir's right arm and began to pull him to his feet. The other man stepped toward his other side. Somewhere in his mind, Julian remembered his shoulder. He did not want to have to put it back in place again. He did his best to stand on his own. The room spun faster around him, but he managed to remain upright. The sitting man did not release his arm but began to lead him, not gently, towards the door.

The steps were harder to negotiate now, and he nearly fell several times before reaching the bottom. But the sitting man's grip was firm, and they both made it to the floor on their feet.

It was becoming easier to focus, and Bashir thought that he was being returned to his cell. As bad as it had been, with its darkness and lack of air, he yearned for the solitude, the quiet and even the darkness. He also thought he could remember the way and so was confused when they passed a familiar doorway.

The sitting man kept leading him down the hallway. Against one wall sat an odd-looking, waist-high, wooden table. When they reached it, the sitting man pushed Bashir harshly over the top of it. The other German stepped up and pulled Bashir's wrists out toward the other end of the table so that he couldn't straighten back up. Darkness threatened to overcome the bright overhead lighting as the man grasped his left wrist and pulled against his left shoulder. Bashir involuntarily cried out as the pain erupted anew in his injured arm.

"We are going to teach you," the changeling said behind him, "how to count in German."

Bashir couldn't work out what he meant. _Count? _

"_Eins._"

Bashir heard the crack just before he felt it, but only a heartbeat before. Searing, stinging pain forced a ragged cry from his already parched throat. His knees buckled and he sagged against the table.

"_Eins_," the changeling said again, this time more forcefully.

Another crack and then another bolt of pain sliced through Bashir's back.

"It is always _eins_ until you repeat. _EINS!_"

Another crack, but Bashir was beginning to understand. "_Eins_," he choked. He had only time to gasp for a breath before the changeling spoke again.

"_ZWEI!_" The crack of the whip followed, and Bashir learned to count in German. He passed out before he had reached fifteen, or _fünfzehn_, but they dashed his face with water and made him start again from ten--_zehn_.

By the time he had reached _zwanzig_--twenty--he could no longer scream. The number came out in a whisper. The whip ceased its assault, though by then Bashir's back was criss-crossed with ribbons of red, bleeding welts.

"_Laßt ihn_." The changeling's voice sounded so distant. "_Ihr könnt gehen._"

* * *

The changeling waited for the others to leave and then walked over to Bashir's limp form. She could have killed him. She realized that. All she had to do was order it. She almost had. She knelt down in a fluid movement and untied his hands. She was satisfied, for now.

Bashir tried to look up at her, but he was unable to raise his head. No matter. She gripped him firmly around the waist and lifted him from the floor. For his part, he did attempt to walk but he couldn't keep his feet beneath him very well. The door to his cell was open, and she dropped him inside. He rolled onto his stomach, carefully leaving his left hand exposed beside him, and lay still.

"I'll have a doctor come look at you this afternoon," she said in the voice of the Gestapo man whose form she held. Then she closed and locked the door. She had to get to Birkenau. _Scharführer_ Heiler was due to report for duty in an hour.

* * *

Jadzia Dax checked the readings on her console again and wished she could increase speed. It was nearly time to end her shift, but they were still nearly two hours from reaching Greenland and the next set of comm signals. On the bottom edge of the viewscreen she could just make out the coast of Norway. Or was it Sweden? It was difficult remembering. Historical geography was hardly her main focus at the academy. She could remember stuff like that about her own world, but Earth was different. She had visited too many planets, lived in too many cultures to remember every detail about them all.

"Commander!"

Dax turned to see who had called, even though she knew the call was for Worf. He had the bridge after all.

"What is it, Ensign?" There was impatience in Worf's voice. He probably was not too pleased with the outburst, but he did nothing more to show it.

"I'm picking up two more signals, sir!" the red-haired ensign reported excitedly, though he made an effort to keep his voice low. "It's Amitai and Ephraim."

Worf stood and walked to the man's console. "Where?" he asked more quietly, all annoyance gone.

"Here, sir." The man pointed to his screen, but Dax couldn't see anything from her seat at the helm. For his part, Worf stood ramrod stiff and showed no emotion, nothing to give her any indication of good news or bad.

"Hail them," Worf ordered.

The man's voice dropped to a whisper when he answered, and Dax couldn't make it out. She turned back to her console, knowing that she should be minding her duty, but she still strained to hear.

"Dax," Worf said so suddenly she nearly jumped. She nodded to Lieutenant Jordan, who would relieve her at the helm, and met Worf near the console. She could see then the coordinates of the signals. One was stationary and weak, but oddly, the second was moving. "Set course and then go below and wake the captain. Tell Chief O'Brien to prepare for transport."

Dax nodded. She returned to the helm and reached over Jordan's shoulder to set the new course. He did not object. Then she turned for the turbolift. _Moving_._ What could it mean? Could one of them be swimming?_

Sisko looked so tired when he answered the door chime, that Dax almost felt sorry for waking him. He'd only been asleep for a couple of hours. "We've found Ephraim and Amitai, Benjamin." She took a deep breath and then told him the rest. "They're in the water, and they don't answer our hails."

Dax had thought it impossible, but Sisko's face actually fell. "Where are we, Old Man?"

"Off the northern coast of Norway or Sweden."

He pounded his fist on the door frame and then turned back into his quarters. "Inform Major Kira and get the medical team ready to meet me in the transporter room, Dax."

Dax nodded and left him to get dressed. She didn't tell him that the scans had shown the water temperature to be well below tolerable levels for humans. He was much better at Earth geography than she was. He probably already knew.

The transporter room was crowded with people when they entered, though she noticed that it was much cleaner now. Sisko looked grim, but he kept his tone neutral. "Do we have a lock, Chief?"

"Yes, sir," O'Brien acknowledged, "It's Ephraim, but it's weak. If we're going to do it, we need to do it now."

Sisko nodded and the transporter started up with a slight whine. Still needed work. It was understandable given the amount of damage the changeling had caused. It probably wouldn't be back to specs until it had been completely overhauled at the nearest spacedock--which was a couple hundred years away at present.

The form that emerged on the platform was much too small to be Ephraim, and much too flat. There was only a black pile of wet fabric. Kira stepped forward first. She turned back a few of the folds, revealing a swatch of yellow, and found Ephraim's comm badge. She handed it to Sisko and then flexed her fingers. The nurse took over and scanned the fabric for human remains. She didn't say anything. The uniform dripped when she picked up. She too flexed her fingers as she dropped the fabric into the waiting container.

"I've got Amitai now, sir," O'Brien said quietly.

Sisko waited for the techs to clear the pad. "Energize."

This time the form that emerged from the transporter effect was indeed large enough to be a human. Larger, in fact. Several large chunks of ice had been beamed up with Amitai's body. He'd apparently crawled onto a floating slab of ice. That would have explained the movement.

Sisko sighed. "How long to Greenland, Old Man?"

"Another hour and a half," Dax answered as she watched the med-techs extricate the corpse from the ice.

* * *

Sisko heard the footsteps in the hall before he heard the door chime. He'd very diligently kept his eyes closed since he had returned to his quarters, but it was no use. He hadn't slept at all. He knew that he should. He would be on duty in less than three hours, and he wouldn't have another chance to sleep for sixteen hours after that. But telling himself that over and over hadn't helped either. It only made him feel worse.

He'd had a stomachache since Nepal. Smith and Syra frozen, Nietzsche torn apart by lions, Ephraim and Amitai. All of them dead. Fellini, too. There were still six others who were not answering their comm signals. And Bashir. They hadn't been able to find Bashir yet.

He thought about altering course. Pick up the survivors first. They were waiting, most likely injured, in hostile surroundings. But he knew he couldn't do that. The ship would not go any faster than it was going right now anyway, not until the engines were fully repaired. And what if, by some chance, his stomachache was wrong? What if even one of them was still alive, but unable to answer?

When the door chimed, Sisko stood quickly, still dressed, and met Kira at the door. "Any answer from them, Major?"

She let her glance fall to the floor. "No, sir. No life signs either, but the sensors. . . ."

Sisko stopped her. "I know."

They didn't say anything else as they headed toward the transporter room. "Just coming into range, Captain," O'Brien reported as the door slid open. The medical team was already there, waiting.

"Energize as soon as you have a lock, Chief," Sisko ordered quietly.

The result was no different than it had been over Nepal. Two crewmembers, frozen to death. They were beamed up together this time. They had obviously held each other for warmth. But time had been against them. They might have even lasted an hour, perhaps, but it had taken more than a week before the _Defiant_ was capable of rescuing them. They couldn't have survived. Shavatt and Pelt. Seven out of eight.

Sisko looked to Kira. "What's our flight plan, Major?

"That depends," she replied as she walked around the med-techs to reach the computer screen. She pressed a few controls, and a map of the western hemisphere appeared. "We've got people on both continents and just off the coast. If we go for Nohtsu now, which would be a shorter trip, we'd risk night by going back for Salerno and the others. We'd have to wait until we came around again."

Sisko nodded. "I don't think Salerno would appreciate that."

"No, I don't think he would." She pressed another key and a line formed on the map, showing the _Defiant_'s path to South America and the Galapagos. "We could go to the southern continent first, and we could swing north afterwards."

"But Nohtsu is injured," Sisko finished for her. She nodded. He thought about it silently for a few moments. Nohtsu had been patient thus far, despite her injury and the inclimate weather. She would only be waiting a few hours more. Salerno would be waiting a whole day if they went for Canada first. And there were the three others in Atacama to think of as well. In spite of his stomachache, he could not completely discount the possibility of their survival.

"South first, Major."

Kira nodded curtly and called the bridge with the new course. "We should reach the western coast within five hours," she informed him.

Sisko nodded and then left for his quarters. He still had a couple of hours to lay with his eyes closed. His stomachache showed no sign of fading.

Five hours. It was going to be a long day.

Two hours later, Sisko was back on the bridge and the _Defiant_ was passing over Nova Scotia. The crew was quiet, most by now having gotten the word that the crewmates that had been rescued had not survived, with the exception, of course, of Wu, who, true to his word, was in fine shape. After a night's rest, he'd added his name to the duty roster and his hands to the repairs.

Atacama proved something of a surprise. As Sisko had suspected, all three crewmembers arrived on the ship as lifeless carcasses. That they'd been dead awhile was evident by the degree to which they had been scavenged. Even the medical team, who was supposed to be able to handle some pretty nasty wounds, were left queasy from the sight.

But, remembering the blood in the transporter room, Sisko ordered an autopsy on Keller anyway. Without the doctor, there was no one really qualified to provide an autopsy, but Nurse Baines solemnly volunteered to autopsy all three--to the best of her ability. Sisko assured her that any information she might discover would be helpful.

And it was, at least in answering some questions. Keller, indeed, had not died from the desert. A small incision was found in his chest. He had been stabbed through the heart. The changeling had killed him in order to gain control of the transporter.

Wieland was too far gone to provide any real answers, but Armand was more helpful. Her neck had been snapped. The changeling had killed her too, to gain control of Engineering. Since Wieland had been in Engineering as well, it was a safe assumption that all three crewmen had been killed before they ever left the ship.

The Galapagos were not far away, so once again, Sisko found himself in the transporter room backed up by Kira and the medical team. Salerno was contacted. He'd been doing better the last couple of days, catching some small lizards to eat and finding some plants. But he was anxious to return to the ship. This time, Sisko didn't have to disappoint him. "Energize."

"Aye, sir," O'Brien replied and then turned back to the controls. In a few seconds, Salerno's form began to materialize on the platform. He looked pale and swayed slightly when the effect left him, and Sisko realized he must be weak from his ordeal. He stepped forward to offer a steadying hand.

"It's good to see you again, Captain," Salerno said, grinning, as he took hold of Sisko's arm.

"Good to have you back, Ensign," Sisko smiled in return. "You didn't happen to see Lieutenant Sopok since we last spoke?"

"No, sir."

Sisko waited until he had been lead out of the room. "Any readings on Sopok?"

"I _am_ getting another signal, Captain," O'Brien said, though he didn't seem too sure, "but it's weak."

"Can you get a lock?" Kira asked.

"Yes, sir, I think so." Both he and Kira looked to the Captain, waiting for his signal.

Sisko nodded and turned again to face the platform. He prepared himself inwardly, as well as he could, for Sopok's body to materialize. A shimmering form appeared, lying horizontal on the pad. But it was too big. Much too big. As it took shape it began to be apparent that they hadn't beamed up Sopok after all, but it was over before anyone was able to react. As the shimmering faded, fins became visible and large, white teeth.

As the transporter effect drained away, the shark came back to life, thrashing wildly on the platform. Kira, who had been standing closest to the pad jumped back fearfully. Sisko didn't blame her. He grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the pad as he stepped back himself. "Send it back, Chief!" he yelled.

"I'm trying, sir!" O'Brien yelled back. "We hadn't planned on sending anything back down."

The shark, probably a good three and a half meters in length, was whipping about so violently that it was in danger of slipping off the pad altogether. Sisko pulled out his phaser. Kira took his lead and unholstered hers as well. "Set to stun, Major."

"What is that thing?" she asked as she took aim. "I thought Earth was paradise. You never told me you had sea monsters."

Sisko fired with her and held the beam until the shark lay still. Well, nearly still. It still gasped for air that it couldn't breathe. Sisko let out his breath. He turned to the nurse. "Scan it." Then he turned back to Kira as the nurse pulled out his tricorder and stepped cautiously toward the shark. "It's not a sea monster. It's a shark. And that's a relatively small one."

"I'm definitely reading the comm signal, Captain," the nurse called. He looked up, his face grim. "And I'm reading Vulcan genetic material."

"Got it, sir!" O'Brien declared triumphantly. The nurse stepped away.

Sisko hesitated before he asked the next question. He was afraid of the answer. "What about human remains?" Kira looked at him hard. She knew what he was asking. Bashir was the only one not accounted for now, with the exception of the changeling.

The nurse checked the tricorder again and then shook his head. "No, sir. No human remains."

Sisko sighed again, relieved. If Bashir was still just 'missing,' there was still grounds for hope. Unfortunately, that was not the case for Lieutenant Sopok. "Send it back, Chief, before it suffocates."

* * *

Max carefully removed the wooden shoes from his feet. His toes and heels were red and sore. The shoes were too small. They cut into his feet, but he did not dare go without them. He'd already seen some of the other prisoners with frostbite. As painful as the shoes were, he would rather wear them than stand barefoot in the cold and mud during roll call.

Especially given how long the roll calls were lasting. Though he had only been in the camp a few days, maybe a week,--he had already lost track--he could tell that something had gone wrong. The count wasn't right. The numbers weren't adding up. So the Germans kept counting and the prisoners kept dying as they did so.

"Do you think he's dead?" Vláďa asked from behind his hands. He was always blowing into his hands to try and keep them warm.

Max put his shoes back on and then looked at the boy. "The doctor? I don't know." And he really didn't. But he didn't want Vláďa to think the worst anyway, not until they knew for sure. Things were bad enough already. "They took him because he was English. Maybe they took him to a camp for prisoners of war."

"They probably had him shot," someone said from below. He was speaking Yiddish. Vláďa leaned over the edge to see who had spoken. Max did as well. "I heard the guards say he was a spy."

"A Nazi spy more likely," someone else added angrily, this time from across the room. "Why do you think he still has hair when the rest of us were shaved?"

"He can't even speak German," Vláďa countered. "How can he be a spy for them?"

"Why would the Nazis want to spy on us?" the first agreed. "They already have us."

"Maybe they just consider English Jews better than Slavic Jews," a third suggested.

Soon the whole front end of the barracks was arguing over whether or not Bashir was being treated with privilege or hanged with piano wire. Max didn't know the answer. He only knew that Bashir had been kind to him for the three days they were together, and he was protective of Vláďa. He was quiet and rarely spoke. When he did, it was in English and appeared to be more for his own comfort than any real communication. When he really wanted to say something, he used his hands, gesturing to convey his meaning.

Though they'd only met on the train, Vláďa seemed genuinely worried about him. When the argument erupted, he had backed up quietly to lean against the wall. Eventually, the _Blockälteste_ decided that there was too much noise and threatened to beat the next one who spoke.

Max joined Vláďa at the wall, and they sat in silence. Vláďa, no doubt, was thinking of Bashir or perhaps his cousin. Max thought of his wife and daughter. Every thought, every memory brought their faces back into sight. He tried to tell himself that at least they'd been spared the torture of starvation and cold that threatened him every hour of every day. But it did not make it hurt any less.

* * *

By 2000 hours Fellini and Nohtsu were back on board the _Defiant_--Nohtsu in sickbay with Salerno, and Fellini in a damaged shuttle bay that was serving as a temporary morgue. Still unable to speak, Nohtsu had written up a brief report. She and Fellini had been in the turbolift on their way to Engineering when the transporter took them. As they rematerialized, they were quite shocked to see that there was nothing beneath their feet.

Judging from her rate of fall, Nohtsu estimated that they had materialized over 3,000 feet in the air. Sisko wasn't sure how she survived, but he'd heard stories when he was younger of people who had been skydiving and had fallen thousands of feet only to bounce. Some were injured. Some had gotten up and walked away. Fellini had not been so lucky. His neck had broken on impact along with most of his other bones. Nohtsu had stayed by him, trying to ward off the scavengers, but she was wounded herself. Fellini was in poor shape when he rematerialized on the transporter pad.

Sisko let the hand that held Nohtsu's report drop to his side as he surveyed the shuttle bay. Eleven shiny black casings held them. Some with bodies, some with scraps of uniform. There was nothing for Sopok; he was the twelfth. Twelve was too many. But at least they'd been found--most of them. He sighed. Fifteen comm signals and fifteen crewmembers. He felt relieved of at least a portion of his anxiety. But the stomachache had grown worse.

There was some half-hearted grumbling on the ship, rumors that some of the crew wanted to go back now. They had looked for their missing people for over a week now. They had found all they were going to find. They were tired and the ship was damaged. It was time to go home.

But Sisko knew it wasn't. It couldn't be. Even if it wasn't Julian. And he knew his crew knew it, too. Starfleet Temporal Policy was clear. They could not leave the missing crewman there unless and until they knew there was no threat of changing the timeline. In other words, they would have to know that Julian was dead. There was no other way they could leave him--or any other of their crew.

And the changeling was an even bigger worry. If, by some unforeseen circumstance, they had to leave Bashir behind, Sisko could trust that Julian would do his best to leave the timeline intact. But the changeling could be actively attempting to change it. The easiest way he and the others, with Thomas's input, had decided was to influence the war going on below. Novels had been written about the concept. What if Hitler and the Nazis had won the war? They weren't cheerful books. What would the consequences be to the 24th century?

* * *

Julian Bashir awoke thankful for the darkness and the silence inside his cell. Even thankful for the thinness of the air. He could live with that. Just as long as no one touched him. The changeling had kept her word about the doctor. One had come to see him hours before, and the stinging in his back was just now slowly ebbing away. Iodine. That was all the doctor had done, perhaps all he could do with the Germans watching his every move.

The star sewn on his striped uniform had not escaped Bashir's notice. He was a Jewish doctor and a prisoner himself. He could only do as he was told and no more. The doctor had entered silently, his face drawn and grave. He'd seemed tired and pained himself, and no doubt he was. Bashir had felt sorry for him, at least until he had applied the iodine. All sympathy and feelings he had for others had melted again as the antiseptic liquid seeped into the welts and cuts that cris-crossed his back. He had barely heard the laughter of the guards as he had faded once again to unconsciousness.

But now as he awoke again, it was the pain that had faded--at least as long as he didn't move. He didn't ever want to move again.

But just then the door opened and a figure stood in the doorway, his hands full of gray and blue striped fabric. As he stepped inside, Bashir was able to recognize the SS officer from his first few hours here. It had to be the changeling. "Here are your clothes," he said, using a heavy German accent, perhaps to fool the guards. He tossed the fabric at Bashir. "Someone will be here for you in thirty minutes. I suggest you be ready for him when he comes." He stepped back and the door shut again.

It took the full thirty minutes to get dressed. Every movement stirred up pain and threatened unconsciousness. But even if he'd been well, dressing in the dark would've been difficult. He had to fumble around to find the pants, the shirt. And there was more this time. Something big and heavy made of the same material as the pants. Bashir leaned his good shoulder against the wall and tried to figure it out. It had buttons, and when he finally held it right, he discovered it had sleeves as well. A coat. The changeling had given him a coat.

This time when the door opened, he was sitting up, propped against the wall and dressed. He felt warm, at least for now, and for that he could live with the material on his burning back. Besides, if he tucked his arm between the buttons of the coat, it could act as a makeshift sling.

The changeling, again as the SS officer, stood in the door, but he wasn't alone. Another guard stood with him. The changeling said something to him in German. Bashir recognized "Birkenau" again, but he was still not sure what it meant.

The guard did know, however, and he nodded briskly before stepping into the cell. "_Steh' auf!_" he ordered.

Bashir didn't understand but he could guess. Using his legs and pushing against the wall, he slowly got to his feet. The walls started to spin and the changeling in the doorway to blur, but he managed to hold on to his consciousness despite the pain and rapid movement. At least until the guard spun him around forcibly by grabbing his left arm. It was overwhelming. The cell again went black and Julian's knees nearly buckled, but he remained on his feet and didn't faint, even as his arms were wrenched behind him and tied at the wrists.

And then they were walking. Out of the cell, up the stairs--slowly--and out of the building into the biting wind and cold of winter. Bashir was glad for the coat, but it wasn't enough to protect against the icy wind. It was night again, or still, Bashir was not sure which. Going down the stairs, he had nearly fallen, but he got back to his feet and walked again in a daze. They went past the guards that stood at the gate and past the long brick buildings and even the iron sign. Soon they were out in the open fields, and Bashir could see the stars above his head. _Why can't you find me?_ he thought to the _Defiant_ up there somewhere. But he knew the answer. With no comm badge, he was just another human. _Are you even looking any more? _

They walked on, the guard occasionally exhorting Bashir to go faster, sometimes with only his voice, other times with a push from the butt of his gun. Bashir wasn't sure how long they'd walked but as the sky turned from black to a dull gray, he began to see the outlines of the big camp with fence posts standing like candy canes. They kept walking and the sky brightened with every few steps, little by little. __

Sunrise again, Bashir mused vaguely and then could not remember why he would find that funny. The guard prodded him with his gun, and Bashir lurched over in pain. He wanted to turn around and yell at the man. Hurting him only slowed him down. But he knew he didn't have the strength either to turn around or to yell. Every bit of energy he had was focused into walking in front of the guard.

For the second time since his arrival, he was amazed at the workings of his legs. As they neared the large camp, he wondered how they'd managed to carry him this far. They passed under the large central watch tower Bashir remembered from when he'd been taken out. He couldn't think how long ago it was. It was hard enough to think of not falling down as his legs moved step by step forward with the prodding of the guard. He felt relieved to be returning. Anything was better than where he'd been.

As he passed on the other side of the guard tower that stood above the gate, he glanced upward and was surprised to still see a few stars there. The wind was swift and it kept the smoke at bay enough to let a few pinpricks of light shine through. As he watched one of them shimmered and wavered and then disappeared altogether as if it had just gone under cloak. His heart leapt and he forgot all about his legs which carried him with much greater ease now. He dared to hope that it was the _Defiant_, cloaking so as not to be seen in the night sky. __

They'll come for me soon, you'll see, he thought, as if to argue with the guard who even now was prodding him again. It was too much this time and he fell forward, catching himself on his knees. His back had hurt enough without any help from the guard's gun. He tried to get to his feet again before the guard became more impatient. _I will not die here!_ he screamed in his mind. _I will not die here! _

Behind him, the guard cursed loudly and then grabbed the back of Bashir's collar, hauling him to his feet. His legs, faithful as ever, kept carrying him, though his thoughts were beginning to be grow fuzzy again from the fire he felt on his back.

The guard stopped him in front of one of the large wooden barracks. The guard stepped around him to open the door, and Bashir saw hundreds of oval faces turn to look at him. _Was this my barracks?_ he wondered. He hoped it was. He felt his wrists behind him being untied. A blaze of pain shot through his arm as the guards hands brushed his own, and then his arms fell free to his sides. He started to take a step inside, hoping that his legs would not fail him after coming all this way. He wanted to get away from the guard, to lose himself again in the multitude of inmates in his barracks and in this camp.

* * *

Max looked up when the door opened. Everyone looked up. Bashir was standing in the doorway. Just standing there. He had an odd look on his face, like he was not really there. There was a German guard behind him. He untied Bashir's hands and then shoved him forward. A small cry escaped from the Englishman as he fell forward, his right arm twisted up behind him.

He tried to catch himself with his other arm before he hit the ground. As soon as his fingers touched the dirt floor, he cried out again and brought his hand up close to his chest, letting himself fall the rest of the way. He sat like that for several moments, his knees tucked up under him and his shoulders and face resting on the ground. He panted hard, obviously in pain, but didn't otherwise move.

Some of the other prisoners began to taunt him, saying that he certainly was getting special treatment. Max was glad now that Bashir couldn't understand them. Vláďa tapped his shoulder and then jumped down from the bunk, beckoning for him to follow. They hurried over to Bashir and knelt down on either side of him.

"Let's get him up," Max told the boy. He started to touch Bashir's shoulder, but Bashir recoiled in pain once more, biting back another cry. Max pulled his hands away. Something was wrong with the shoulder as well.

Max nodded to Vláďa and then tried again, this time very gently slipping his hands between Bashir's arm and his ribs. Vláďa did the same at the other side, but both were surprised when Bashir took his hand and tried to sit up on his own. Vláďa looked down at Bashir's hand. His fingers were red with blood. His fingernails were gone.

They managed to get him to his feet and walk him over to their bunk. He placed his good--better--hand on the bunk and started to step up, but stopped. The far away look in his eyes was gone. In its place, Max saw exhaustion and pain. Max stood for a moment transfixed by those eyes and then sent Vláďa up to the bunk ahead of him. Then he and Vláďa pushed and pulled as Bashir gave as much effort as he had.

Bashir made it to the bunk and then collapsed, face down on the rough wood, his right arm lying along his side. His left arm was brought up close by his shoulder. He breathed hard and unevenly, and his whole body shook with cold. In less than a minute though he was unconscious.

* * *

Benjamin Sisko started to choke back the yawn he felt emerging from his throat and then decided it was a futile attempt. Stevens, the head engineer while the Chief was off duty, didn't seem to take it the wrong way.

"Should work now," Stevens was saying.

Sisko almost smiled but then thought better of it. It might not work at all. "We're ready to try then?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Worf," Sisko ordered, "prepare to engage cloaking device."

"Aye, sir," the Klingon acknowledged. There was a moment's pause as he keyed in the commands. "Ready, Captain."

"Engage cloak."

Sisko held his breath, as did the rest of the bridge crew. It was becoming a tradition. They'd all done the same thing when they waited to see if communications or the transporters were really going to work. Nothing happened and Sisko was about to release the air in his lungs when the lights began to slowly dim. "Mr. Stevens?"

"It's working, sir!" Stevens reported excitedly. "We're cloaking!"

Finally the lights stabilized, basking the bridge in the familiar subdued lighting of the cloaked _Defiant_. Worf confirmed it. "The cloak is functioning at one hundred percent, Captain."

Stevens' smile swelled with pride.

"Good work," Sisko nodded to him. "What's next?"

Stevens' smile faded. He turned somberly and headed for the turbolift.

Sisko leaned back again in his chair and thought about Bashir. They had nearly circled the globe again after picking up Nohtsu and Fellini and still had no signal from Bashir. But now with the cloak, they didn't have to constrain their search to the daylight side of the planet. A more systematic search plan could be utilized, leaving no area of the planet uncovered. A doubt remained, however. If Bashir's comm badge was disabled, they still wouldn't be able to find it. __

No room for doubts, Sisko told himself. He had to show confidence in his crew. "Major," he said and waited for her to join him at his chair. "Work with the helm. Set a course that will cover every square inch of this planet in the least time. And if moving in closer will increase the sensor range, do it."

Kira nodded, but didn't turn away immediately. Her eyes looked troubled. "Do you think he's still alive?" she whispered. She lowered her eyes. "All the others. . . ."

"Not all," Sisko reminded her, his voice low and gentle. "And I have to believe he's still alive. We all do."

Kira nodded and regained her full amount of composure. She and Dax moved away to the table in the rear of the bridge to discuss the new course.

* * *

Max watched Bashir carefully, thinking it ironic that he was playing doctor while the doctor was being a patient. Vláďa had proven himself to be quite innovative. He'd managed to find a somewhat clean shirt to use for bandages. Max didn't bother to ask where he had gotten it. Vláďa had washed it as well as possible by finding a pile of snow unmarred as of yet by muddy feet and general grime. Then he'd laid it out across his legs as he sat on the ground outside, moving around to take advantage of the few rays of sunlight that filtered in through smoke that filled the camp. It had taken all day, but the shirt was nearly dry, though it was still cold and stiff from the frigid air.

To be honest, Max had thoroughly expected Bashir to die before the next roll call, but the Englishman had stubbornly held on to life. He'd been only half-conscious when Max and Vláďa had left him to go out for drills. The SS were staying away due to a typhus epidemic, and Bashir could stay in the barracks with the other sick and dying prisoners. Amazingly, he regained consciousness somewhere around noon, and with help, had even sat up, leaning sideways with his right shoulder against the barracks wall. He hadn't said a word or asked for anything. Max wasn't sure if that was from shock or the realization of the futility of speaking when no one understood his language. Still, it was disconcerting.

The doctor's back, once they'd managed to remove his coat and blood-stained shirt, was riddled with an ugly pattern of red and bleeding welts and cuts. Max tore the front of the extra shirt into strips that could be used for bandages, and then draped the rest of it across Bashir's back. Bashir had winced a little at the pain, but still kept quiet.

Bashir regained his authority as the doctor when it came to his left arm. Using his other hand, he had directed Max in the most effective way to support his shoulder and bandaged his own bent and broken hand. Shortly after, he'd fallen asleep again, still sitting against the wall. He had only awoken when Vláďa brought him some of the black bread and sausage to eat. Bashir ate it hungrily, and Max realized that he probably hadn't eaten since they had taken him away. Evening came and with it another roll call. It took a long time, and a lot of help from Vláďa, for Bashir to stand again. Even the sick had to go to roll call. The _Blockälteste_ yelled at them for being slow, but luckily did not threaten them physically.

The three of them were the last to leave the courtyard, but they were not far behind the others. The wind was strong, but the smoke was heavy and was replaced almost as quickly as it was blown away. The walk to the _Appellplatz_ was difficult, but Bashir kept up. Vláďa held on to his good arm to steady him.

When they lined up, Max pushed to find a place for them in the center of the row. He did not want to be on the outside. Bashir's condition would certainly draw attention, and after a week in this hell, Max had learned that that was one thing you never wanted to do here. Max also realized that with Bashir, being inconspicuous was nearly impossible. Even buried in the middle of three hundred men, his height made him stand out. And his full head of hair finished the job. Though Max himself had resented the shaving of his own hair, he now appreciated the uniformity it provided.

Every few minutes, Max would dart his eyes toward Bashir, not daring to turn his head. The doctor stared silently at the feet of the man in front of him, his head bowed. His shoulders swayed slightly with the wind, but he remained on his feet.

* * *

For Julian, the roll call was an exercise of contradictions. He felt nothing and he felt pain. He was cold and he felt that he would burn up. He was tired but he could not close his eyes. He stood and yet he could not feel the ground beneath his feet. He longed to go back inside, and yet wished never to move again. His coat felt the brush of the wind that shook the body that was oblivious to it. The world was a dream with no reality at all.

As if they were sounding in his own mind, he heard the SS counting. He knew what they were saying, understood their numbers, though he knew he didn't speak German. _Fifty, fifty-five_, they were saying. _Sixty_. They kept counting. _One hundred, one hundred and five_. On and on they counted, until the numbers again became incomprehensible to him. Unsatisfied with their numbers they started again. _Five, ten, fifteen_.

Three rows up and to the right, a man dropped to his knees and then fell to the ground. The SS officer who'd been counting this particular section of the prisoners, stopped his counting and swiftly came over to the man, his club raised. Bashir watched it as if it was a dream, half pitying the man and half unable to believe that it was really happening. The SS beat him slowly, as if moving in slow motion. The man cried out, and it echoed in Julian's ears. Then his cries stopped. He stopped moving. The SS, sweating from the effort of the beating, drew away and resumed his dispassionate counting right where he left off. _Seventy-five, eighty_.

A small gallows was erected in the _Appellplatz_. Bashir hadn't remembered seeing it before. One of the Germans, an SS who obviously commanded the respect of all the other guards, addressed the gathering. His voice boomed with anger and loathing. Bashir didn't understand what was being said, and Max could not even attempt to explain it during the roll call, not even to Vláďa who would have understood a Czech translation.

But after a few minutes of the German's ranting, Bashir saw that a translation was unnecessary. He still did not know the details as the three men were marched out toward the gallows. They could barely stand. All three of them were bruised and battered and bleeding. Bashir thought it a wonder that they could even walk. Then he vaguely wondered if he looked as bad as they did. They'd apparently been punished severely, perhaps even tortured like himself. And now they were going to hang.

Then there was a sound, an odd sound at a time when there was only supposed to be counting. Short, uneven taps sounded through the forest of prisoners. Bashir didn't dare turn his head to see what it was. It would undoubtedly come into focus given enough time. Besides, he wasn't entirely sure that he cared what the sound was.

The sound drew closer until a procession emerged between two groups of prisoners. At the head was a man, barely able to stand himself. He wore a sign with German writing and carried a drum which he tapped raggedly as the German guards behind him prodded him forward. He was wearing street clothes, not the dull stripes of the prisoners. But Bashir could see by his shaved head and gaunt face that he had belonged to Auschwitz. He had escaped.

Only now he'd been caught. The respected SS was once again speaking, yelling so that all could hear him. The three were lined up in front of the gallows on what looked like a bench. The nooses were around their necks. Only one remained empty. They looked at the drummer with eyes dulled by pain. He looked back at them and dropped his shoulders a little closer to the ground. They were friends. The bench was removed and the three dropped. It was only a few inches, so their necks didn't break. They dangled there, jerking and writhing as they slowly strangled to death from their own weight. It began to snow.

Bashir watched it all from afar, as if it were only a dream. Yet somewhere in his mind, he knew that these were real men with real lives now ended. He closed his eyes against the wind and the snow and against the sight of the bodies twitching there. When he opened them again, the three were still, but the drummer was being put on the bench. The noose was tightened around his neck. The bench was again removed, and he joined the three in death.


	8. Chapter 8

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Eight**

For one half hour, the _Defiant_ remained in a geosynchronous orbit over the white ice of the North Pole. Dax and Kira had worked out a strategy, a spiral starting at the pole and then working around and southward, against the Earth's rotation, widening until it reached the equator and then closing in again on Antarctica and the opposite pole. In that manner, they would be able to cover the entire surface of the Earth in only a few days.

But that would not start until 1600. At 1530, the entire crew, except Worf, who was manning the bridge, and Nohtsu, who was still convalescing in sickbay, were gathered in the mess hall for a short memorial service in the honor of their fellow crewmembers. Jadzia Dax and all the others on her shift had cut their off-duty hours short in order to attend. She listened intently as Captain Sisko read each of the names. She tried to picture each one.

"Ensign Renaldo Amitai," the captain said. "Crewman Patricia Armand." Dax remembered them both: one, a tall man, quiet and sincere, with gray eyes that seemed to look through you, and the other a strong woman, of medium build and short dark hair.

When Sisko read the next name, Ephraim's, Dax felt a stab of pain, or perhaps it was guilt. She couldn't remember him. He was new to the ship, just transferred on. Fellini, the Italian, with chiseled features and a soft voice. Garris, whose small stature and delicate frame belied her physical strength. Worf had commented on her skill as a Security officer on more than one occasion. Keller, who always smiled at her whenever she was in the transporter room, except when Worf was looking.

"Ensign David Nitzsche," Sisko continued. An animal lover. His family ran a zoo back on Earth. The oldest in Europe, he had told her once, not far from Prague. "Ensign Olan." A tall, thin Bolian, boisterous and loud. He loved a good party, but he was always deadly serious when on duty.

Pelt and Shavatt, inseparable friends. Dax couldn't remember ever seeing them apart. Tristan Smith, a warm young man renowned for his impressions of the senior staff. Dax regretted that she'd never gotten the chance to hear him do her. Sopok, serious and logical, but more approachable than most other Vulcans she had met. Syra, Olan's cousin, and a brilliant engineer. The chief had bragged on her as Worf had with Garris. Triilan. Triilan kept to himself when he was not on duty. Dax could just barely visualize his face.

"Crewman Christian Wieland," Sisko finished. Beside her Dax heard a sniffle. Thomas, the ship's designated historian, shook herself slightly and then pulled herself back to attention. They'd been friends. A single tear released itself from the young woman's eye and raced down her cheek. She didn't bother to wipe it away.

It was a long list. Too long, and as the gathered crew observed a moment of silence, Dax prayed to whatever god might be listening that Julian's name would not be added to it.

* * *

Max set the food he carried gently down on the bunk and then proceeded to climb up as quickly as possible. One of the others who shared the bunk watched it jealously, but Max snatched the bread and sausage back up before he could do anything. He began to crawl with his free hand to the wall were the doctor was sitting. The Englishman, as usual, was sitting with his good shoulder to the wall. He looked up when Max brushed one of his legs as he made his way there. He didn't say anything, though, but he did sit up a little straighter and look around the room.

Max realized he was probably looking for Vláďa, who had disappeared after roll call again. He had started doing that about the time the SS had taken the doctor away. Max had lost track of him for perhaps only ten minutes that first evening. But he'd been gone longer and longer lately. Frankly, Max missed the company. The doctor, especially since his own disappearance, was hardly one for conversation, even if they had spoken a common language between them. Vláďa, though, reminded him of a young man from Teplice, a student at the gymnasium there who had always stopped by the shop after classes were finished. Everyday he'd bought the same thing, one _kobliha_ with marmalade inside. He would always remark that Sophie Zeidlová made the best _koblihy _in town.

Max pushed the thoughts away. _Enough reminiscing_, he scolded himself as he finished the last of his sausage. Remembering Teplice, his wife, his life, only depressed him. They were all gone now.

Just as he was stuffing a portion of his moldy, stale bread into his pocket, Vláďa poked his head up. Max saw him, but Vláďa diverted his eyes. "I found some more food," he said as he climbed up. He held out the extra piece of bread he'd found, and Max could not help but eye it hungrily. When he'd sat down, Vláďa tore the bread into three parts. He handed one to Max and placed the other in Bashir's good hand.

Vláďa, still avoiding Max's gaze, had sat down cross-legged, tucking his feet beneath his legs, but not before Max noticed the shoes, real shoes, he was wearing now. "_Děkuji_," Max thanked the boy. _It's nothing_, he told himself. It really wasn't any of his business anyway where Vláďa 'found' his extra food and shoes. _I should just be thankful._ It was probably all that was keeping the three of them from being carried out of the barracks in the morning with the corpses.

* * *

Julian Bashir looked at the bread that Vláďa had given him. It was brown, not gray or black, like the bread they usually got. And it was softer, too. He thought that maybe he should save it, like Max did with a portion of his food every evening. But then, it would end up stale and hard, and most likely moldy, like the bread they usually received. He did not want to waste this new 'good' bread. So he took a bite of it and watched Vláďa. The piece was only big enough for a few bites anyway. He wanted to thank him, but he also didn't want to speak. How would Vláďa understand, anyway?

Vláďa still sat cross-legged at the end of the bunk that faced the aisle. He kept his head lowered and would not meet Max's eyes. For a moment, Max looked worried, but then he said something to Vláďa, probably thanking him for the bread. And he, too, began to eat.

Vláďa finished his own small bit of bread and then laid down across the end of the bunk. Bashir thought that was unusual. The three of them always slept side by side, with Bashir always on the left, so that he could sleep on his side and protect his injured shoulder. Vláďa took the middle spot with his head at the opposite end from Bashir and Max. It was a relatively good arrangement considering their confined quarters. It provided some warmth, while also allowing ample, though still quite limited, space for sleeping. And it made it easier to share the one thin blanket they had. Perhaps Vláďa would move later. As he was, he left very little room for Julian's long frame.

The _Blockälteste_ began to yell and pound on people with his club. Curfew. Julian finished the last of his bread, and slowly scooted away from the wall. With Max's help, he removed his coat, and shoes, wrapping them up to use as a headrest. It was much colder without them, but it was apparently the rule. He'd seen the _Blockälteste_ pull men from the bunks and beat them for breaking the rules. Carefully, he lowered himself down, tucking his left arm beside him. Vláďa didn't move though. He stayed at the end of the bunk with his back to Bashir. Julian had to curl himself up into a near-fetal position which was not at all comfortable on the hard wood bunks.

Max looked like he was about to say something, but he turned to Julian instead. They shared a glance of concern and confusion, but then Max lay down too, a little closer to Bashir, spreading the blanket over the two of them. It took him a minute before he settled into his spot, because he also tried to stretch the blanket to cover Vláďa as well. He finally gave up and lay still. Bashir was already asleep.

He woke up several times during the night, as he had every night since he was taken to the other camp. It was the pain that woke him. It might have been that Vláďa or Max had brushed against his arm or that he'd merely shifted his position in his sleep. Either was enough to wake him. It would always take several minutes for the pain to fade back to a tolerable level. As he waited he could hear things. Snoring was a constant, but beyond that he sometimes heard yelling or crying or the moaning of the sick. And below all that, he could hear skittering.

He wasn't sure at first what the sound was. But two nights ago, he'd seen them. Rats. Huge rats, about three times the size of the largest vole he'd seen on the station. They skittered across the floor in the middle of the night, nibbling for any crumb that might have been dropped on the floor. There were at least four of them in the barracks now. Three of them ranged out of Bashir's limited range of sight, scavenging for food. The fourth stayed near the door. It didn't appear as hungry as the others.

Someone at the far end of the barracks screamed. Bashir could not see who it was or why he had screamed. He couldn't move more than he had already. He turned back to look at the door. The rat there sat up on its haunches and turned its head until it was looking right back at him. And then it smiled.

Bashir laid back down quickly and closed his eyes, trying to figure out if he had just hallucinated or if the rat really had just smiled. There was a rational explanation, he knew. Odo had often taken the form of a rodent to listen in on clandestine conversations. There was no reason to assume that the changeling here could not do the same thing. He lifted himself up again, slowly, and looked toward the door. The rat was gone. The man who had screamed earlier had apparently decided that it wasn't worth the effort. All was relatively quiet again. Still it took over an hour for Bashir to fall back asleep.

When he was awakened the next morning by the camp's whistle and the _Blockälteste_'s assistant,--_Stubenälteste_, Max called him--Vláďa was already gone. "_Vláďo!_" Max called in a whisper. He obviously didn't want to arouse the _Stubenälteste_'s anger. He looked around for the boy as he helped Bashir to sit up and dress. Once up, Julian was able to crawl down off the bunk on his own. It had apparently surprised Max though. He stopped calling for Vláďa and just watched before he climbed down himself. It was several minutes before Vláďa appeared from somewhere near the back of the barracks. He had more bread in his hand, and he again shared it with the two of them as they waited for the _Stubenälteste_ to unlock the barracks door.

But he did not unlock it right away. Instead he blocked the door and yelled at everyone until they became quiet. It took a few blows before everyone got the message, but eventually the room quieted down. Then the _Blockälteste_ began to speak. He had hardly opened his mouth, however, before someone pounded on the outside of the door. The _Stubenälteste _hadn't expected it, apparently. He stood still for a moment, looking to the _Blockälteste _for advice or permission to open the door. The _Blockälteste _also looked taken aback, but he yelled for the _Stubenälteste _to open it.

An SS officer stood on the other side of the door. Bashir thought he looked a little familiar, but he didn't have a clear memory of every SS officer he'd seen, especially since his time in the other camp. All the prisoners immediately lined up in front of their bunks and took their hats off. Anyone who was slow received a blow from the _Blockälteste_.

"_Wo ist der Engländer?_" the SS asked, his voice calm and almost friendly.

Bashir heard him and froze. All he could think about was the other camp. _I can't go back there_, he thought. He didn't take his eyes off the man. He was not one of the ones who had come for him before. The _Stubenälteste_ pointed to Bashir. Everyone else stood perfectly still. The SS came over to stand right in front of Bashir.

"Good to see you again," he said, his accent heavy. Julian did not dare look up at him, but he recognized the voice. It was the same as the SS who had greeted him upon entering the camp, and also of the Gestapo agent that had given him the lesson in German numbering. "Come with me," the changeling commanded, not unkindly. She turned smartly and started for the door. She stopped to bark some order to the _Stubenälteste_. Bashir did not want to follow, but he had no choice. He glanced sideways at Max and then stepped cautiously out of the line. He hadn't walked in a couple of days except to use the 'facilities,' the buckets that stood at the back of the barracks. The changeling was walking too fast, and he had to hurry to keep up. As he stepped out the door, he felt the cuts on his back stretch and open up again. It was snowing, but there was very little wind. The door slammed shut behind him. More SS were heading toward the barracks, one wearing a long white lab coat.

"It's a selection," the changeling said without turning around. She was using Whaley's voice now, and it sounded strange coming from the male body in front of him. "So what are we going to do with you?"

* * *

Max only worried about Bashir for a short time. He was too busy worrying about himself. The _Stubenälteste_ had bolted the door behind the SS and the doctor. He seemed relieved that they were gone, but then, in an instant, removed all traces of emotion from his expression. The _Blockälteste_ forced everyone to keep their places. Max thought about his wife and his daughter, and he was sure the Germans were going to kill him now. The door opened and SS came in. They shouted angrily for everyone to move into the room at the back of the barracks. He glanced at Vláďa who stood to his left. For the first time since Max had met him, the boy did not seem afraid. He pushed his way confidently toward the back, dragging Max with him.

"Try not to look afraid," the boy whispered. "They're going to take out the sick ones, ones who can't work. We have to look healthy."

"How do you know this?" Max asked, but Vláďa didn't answer. He did not lose his confident air, however, and Max suspected it had something to do with where he got the new shoes. Max decided to trust him. He'd shared the extra bread and he seemed to know what was going on. Max wasn't going to complain, not if the boy could save his life. Changing the subject, he asked about the doctor. "He's not healthy enough to work."

Vláďa looked pained by that question, but again didn't have an answer. "I don't know. The SS took him."

He didn't say anything else, but Max got the feeling that they were thinking alike. The Englishman would not be coming back this time. Neither had time to ponder his death, however. Once inside the smaller room, they were ordered to turn and go back out. Only now, they were to run out one at a time. Max and Vláďa anxiously waited their turn. Max really did not know what to do. He could not look healthy. It was impossible. After two weeks, he had lost weight. He was thin, too thin, in places, and swollen in others. He hadn't had an opportunity to bathe or to shave.

Before he had time to really think, his turn came. The _Stubenälteste_ ordered him to run. The SS, especially the doctor, eyed him coldly, looking for any blemish or other excuse to sentence him to death. It was both the longest and the shortest run of his life. Long in apprehension, and yet short in that it was over with in seconds, it seemed. He was told to turn around. He did. He was asked his number. He told them. A white piece of paper was placed to one side on a pile. And then he was out the door, lined up with the others who had gone before him. Vláďa followed soon after. In a few minutes, the entire barracks was emptied. The SS left and the _Stubenälteste_ ordered everyone to the latrine.

It usually happened that there was a mad rush for the building. Thousands of men converged there, at the same time, since they were all expected at roll call soon after. There was yelling and arguing and accusations of taking too much time. Some men tried to bribe others to take their places. But today it was different. The other men from other barracks were already gone off to roll call. No one yelled or argued. No one really talked, except in hushed whispers.

"Where'd he put your paper?"

"What do you think they'll do with us?"

Still, the _Stubenälteste_ gave them little time before ordering them back to the barracks. When they returned, they were given their breakfast, consisting of the same clay-like bread and brown water which served as coffee. The door was bolted again. They didn't even go to roll call. And the Englishman had not returned.

* * *

Julian was not quite sure where the changeling was leading him, but it wasn't to the other camp. They had walked away from the main guard tower. He was thankful for that, at least. But he didn't allow himself to feel too grateful. She could just as easily torture or kill him in Birkenau. She was SS, as far as the rest of the camp was concerned, and he was a Jew. Who would stop her?

The changeling stopped in front of another barracks building and opened the door. "After you," she said, with a slight bow and a mocking smile.

Bashir stepped inside. The building was not very different from the barracks he'd just left, nor from the others he'd seen on the way. But this one was empty. Of course, it was still early in the morning. Everyone was probably still at roll call.

"Welcome to your new block, Doctor," the changeling said, transforming herself as she stepped through the door. "I do hope you feel at home here."

Bashir stood still and didn't answer. He tried to show no expression at all. He did not want to give her any excuse to punish him. He was sure he wouldn't survive it.

"Please," she said, this time in a friendly, almost sincere tone, "sit down."

Bashir looked at her, at her chin, Whaley's chin. But he did not meet her eyes. She had warned him about that. He could still just barely feel the bruise she'd given him. She was leaning against the 'oven' and indicating one of the lower bunks with her hand. Bashir didn't know whether or not to obey.

She noticed his uncertainty. "Go on," she urged. "I didn't bring you here to kill you. I could have done that last night."

Still unsure, Bashir moved slowly to the bunk she indicated and sat down. It wasn't comfortable, but it was less tiring than standing. He leaned his good shoulder on the post and tried not to look like he was in as much pain as he felt.

The changeling just stared at him for a few moments and then rolled her eyes up, taking in the ceiling and then the walls and finally the floor. "This really is a dismal history you have here. Killing each other over such petty differences, and on such a scale. Have you any idea how many humans were gassed yesterday? Or who simply dropped dead during the _Appell_? I'm quite surprised you haven't killed each other off already." She stood and crossed over to the bunks.

She seemed to be waiting for a response. Bashir hadn't really spoke at all in the last couple of days, and he wasn't sure he could count on his voice for the reply she wanted. "The war will end," he said. His voice was rough, and he tried to steady it. "We learn from our mistakes."

She sat down beside him and regarded him with concerned eyes. "You really believe that, don't you? What about the sanctuary districts? You've seen those yourself. They were ghettos, not too unlike the one you so briefly visited a couple weeks ago. Do you know how many the Germans set up? Thousands of humans died before they ever made it to one of these camps. Why didn't your people learn from that?"

Bashir remembered the sanctuary districts she spoke of. He and Captain Sisko--only a commander then--had been taken to one after a transporter malfunction deposited them in the twenty-first century by mistake. Thousands of people forced to live in a 20-square block area. Though the authorities had claimed that the sanctuary districts were for the benefit of the residents--for their own good--the district had walls, the guards had guns, and the residents were not allowed to leave. It had disgusted him to see people forced to live that way.

"I suppose we forgot," he whispered, still not looking at her. "But you are no different."

"You solids kill yourselves," she retorted, though not violently. "Until Odo, no changeling had ever harmed another."

Bashir took a deep breath. She might kill him for what he was about to say, but he couldn't keep his tongue any longer. "But you harm others all the time."

She shook her head. "The solids took it upon themselves to harm us first."

"Which solids?" Bashir asked, hoping she would clarify. He wasn't sure exactly why he felt the need to press his point. She was not likely to change her opinion or her goals. He had not expected, however, the response he received. Faster than he could see it, her hand--or a tentacle of some sort--shot out and contacted with his jaw, sending him flying backward onto the bunk. His back erupted into an inferno of pain, and his mouth began to bleed.

She was completely calm when she spoke. "I feel it's important to be consistent. Otherwise you'll only be confused about our relationship. But in reply to the question you shouldn't have asked, I'd say that it doesn't really matter which ones. You of all people should understand, Doctor, prevention saves lives. By bringing order to the solids, we prevent the persecution of our people."

Bashir did not answer this time. He was too busy trying to force the pain to die down again. The changeling also didn't speak for awhile. Then she reached out and grabbed him by the arm--his right arm, thankfully. Once she had him sitting up again, she pulled him to his feet, pushing him back against the boards that held the bunks up. She kept one hand on his chest, pinning him to the bunks. She seemed to study his face for a moment and then declared, "That really just doesn't look right on you."

Bashir had no idea what she was talking about. But he didn't ask for clarification. He didn't need it really. As soon as she had said it, she transformed her other hand into a long, sharp blade. "Hold still now," she warned as it reached toward his neck.

* * *

"You have the bridge, Major." Worf said by way of greeting as Kira stepped onto the bridge. Kira barely had time to nod before he brushed passed her into the turbolift. She wondered why he'd had the bridge. His shift had ended four hours earlier.

Kira looked to O'Brien, who was standing next to the command chair. "Good news, Major!" he called brightly.

Kira stopped mid-yawn. "You found him?" she asked hurriedly, rushing over to the sensor console.

The chief's face fell. "Not that good," he replied quietly. He waited for Kira to regain her composure.

She straightened up and went to the replicator in back for a raktajino. "Sorry, Chief," she apologized. "I guess I spoiled your news. What have you got?"

"Navigation." He smiled again. "She's up and running."

"Well, that should make the pilot happy," Kira quipped.

Dax heard her and smiled. "Very happy. Of course, it had to come only after my sixteen-hour shift was over," she teased. "I hope you enjoy it, Ensign." The last remark was directed toward the aft turbolift.

"Enjoy what, sir?" Ensign Thomas asked as she stifled a yawn of her own.

In answer, Dax stood up and with a flourish of her hand, indicated the helm console.

Thomas took the seat offered and looked at the console. For a moment she did not see anything. She was still too tired. The double-shifts were getting to her, just as they were everyone else. Then it hit her. "Navigation!" she exclaimed with a sense of awe. "I love you, Chief."

O'Brien grinned and turned not a light shade of red. "Don't let my wife hear you say that." He gave a slight nod of his head to Kira and then left with Dax to go below.

"Where are we, Ensign?" Kira asked, checking her own consoles.

Thomas leaned over the helm, checking a few readouts. Then she directed the main viewscreen to show the now familiar sensor-map of the planet's surface. This time it showed a large expanse of blue water and the edge of a small land mass. "We should be directly above the Philippines in about six minutes, Major."

Kira shook her head and tried to remember the Philippines. She had thought that she could pass any Earth geography test someone wanted to give her by now, but she realized that some of it must still have slipped by her. "Where are the Philippines?"

Thomas pressed a few controls and widened the map beyond the confines of the sensor's optimum range. "Pacific Ocean," she pointed out. "Just ten degrees or so above the equator and not too far from the lower edge of Asia."

"Asia, I remember," Kira said._ Nepal, to be exact_, she thought. "I take it we haven't picked up any signals."

"None, sir."

Kira sighed. They'd covered nearly half the planet's surface, both land masses and oceans, and there still was no sign of Doctor Bashir. Then she sat up, leaning forward in the chair. "What about those transporter logs? We can eliminate some of the fragments by considering the comm signals we found earlier." She turned to her own consoles then, pulling up the information they had managed to salvage from the shuttle's transporter logs. "Ensign, let's see the entire planet." She waited for Thomas to make the necessary changes to the viewscreen's display. "Now superimpose the transport locations of the missing crewmen. Maybe there will only be a few possibilities left."

The screen abruptly changed and Kira applied the data from the transporter logs herself. It was still a longshot. They didn't have enough fragments to account for all of the transports initiated by the changeling, and they still had the problem of not knowing whether each piece of data referred to latitude or longitude. They would just have to try all the possibilities and see how close they got.

* * *

The changeling had left him there in the empty barracks, his new block, all day. He'd had nothing to eat or even a chance to relieve himself. Bashir, his freshly shaved face bruised from the blow she'd given him, had wedged himself into a corner and slept with his head against the wall. He had woken up periodically, but still no one had entered the block. The door remained bolted. He even missed the evening roll call. Despite his hunger, discomfort, and shivering, he was glad for the respite from that.

But he was confused by the whole thing. She had treated him almost as if he were a human. Almost. The way she had spoken to him, as if she deplored what was happening in the camp. And yet only a few days--How many?--before, she had told the Gestapo to torture him. But he also knew that she had saved his life today. It was not hard to understand the selections. Anyone not fit for work would be killed, probably gassed. He was not really sure. And he knew that he, himself, was not really fit for work. If the SS doctors, or selectors, or whoever they were, had seen him, they would have selected him for death. She had taken him out of the barracks before the selection and was assigning him to a work detail, a Kommando, as she called it, though she had not said what kind of work he would be doing. He couldn't help thinking of Max and Vláďa. He was pretty sure he would never see them again, and they were the closest things he had here to friends.

It was already dark out when the door opened. He heard it open, and began the slow process of standing up. The first thing he saw were the high jackboots the SS wore. It was _Scharführer_ Heiler, the SS identity the changeling had taken on, who entered. He closed the door behind him, but did not bother to change into Whaley's form. "Good, you're up," Heiler said, without his usual German accent. "Come with me." He didn't wait for Bashir to follow, but merely opened the door and stepped out again.

Of course, Bashir knew he would follow. What choice did he have? If he stayed, she would only come back for him and force him to go. So mustering his strength, he shuffled out the door. He was glad when she took him to a latrine. It really was not much more than a barracks building with two short, wide walls running the length of it. Two rows of holes were cut into the top of each of the walls. The place reeked, though Heiler didn't seem to mind. _But then,_ Bashir thought, _she doesn't have a sense of smell_. He thought perhaps this, and the other latrines, were the only places in the camp where one could not smell the smoke.

"You have two minutes," Heiler ordered, reforming into Whaley.

She did not leave him any privacy, but by now, Bashir didn't care about modesty. He had no doubt that she would enforce her time limit. So he hurried to finish before his two minutes were up. He barely had time to button his trousers--not an easy thing to do with one arm--before they were back out into the cold. As they walked, he tried to ease his hand back into the pocket that performed a double function. It kept his hand warm, but also served as a sling, supporting the weight of his arm. She was walking faster now, and it was hard to keep up. Each step was difficult and seemed to pull on a different muscle in his back. His wooden shoes kept wanting to slide or stick in the snow and slush. She led back to his new block, only now it was filling up with people.

"_Du! Komm her!_" Heiler screamed to one of the prisoners, and Bashir realized he hadn't even noticed her changing.

Bashir could see by the red triangle he wore the prisoner was not a Jewish prisoner. Jews wore the star. The _Blockälteste_ in his old block had worn a green triangle. Bashir still didn't know what the different colors meant. But he could tell that not having a star gave them a higher status. Bashir guessed that this one was also a _Blockälteste_.

"_Du hast einen neuen Gast_," Heiler continued. "_Wenn er stirbt, dann durch meine Hand. Ist das klar?!_"

"_Jawohl, Herr Scharführer_," the _Blockälteste_ affirmed, his head still bowed and his hat in his hand.

"_Morgen früh kommt er unter mein Kommando_," the changeling told him. "_Sieh zu, daß er seinen Weg zu mir findet!_" With that she turned and left. She seemed to be in a hurry, and Bashir suspected it was nearly time to regenerate.

"_Warum sorgt er sich bloß so um Dich?_" the _Blockälteste_ snarled as he turned to Bashir. He replaced his cap and waited for Bashir to answer. The other prisoners were milling about noisily, but a few of them had taken notice of the new arrival.

Bashir had no idea what he had been asked. He didn't even really care now. He was tired and hungry and only wanted to go to sleep.

"_Wenn ich dich etwas frage, dann antworte gefälligst!_" the _Blockälteste_ yelled angrily.

Bashir faced him now. He stood nearly a head taller than the man. "I don't speak German," he said quietly.

The _Blockälteste_ seemed surprised by the response. "_Was war das?_" he asked, the venom gone from his tone. "_Englisch?_"

Bashir nodded. "English."

All of a sudden, the _Blockälteste_ appeared tired. He removed his hat and rubbed his short, stubby hair. "_Englisch_," he sighed. Then he turned to the prisoners, most of whom were now openly staring at the two of them. "_Gibt es hier jemanden, der Englisch spricht?_"

One prisoner, very thin--like all the others--eyed Bashir suspiciously then took a step forward. Beside him, another prisoner grabbed his arm. "_Nie! Pewnie doniesie do SS_," he warned in a whisper.

The first prisoner hesitated for a moment and then shrugged off his friend's arm. He stepped forward again. "I speak English," he said.

* * *

Sisko leaned forward in his chair and stared hard at the main viewscreen, as if looking harder would increase the sensor output. They had nearly completed their scan of Earth, and there was still no sign of Bashir or the changeling. Fortunately, there was also no sign of any major change in the time line. Ensign Thomas had been assigned to monitor radio signals and the course of events down below. Major Kira, who was due to go off duty in a little over an hour, was tackling the fragmented transporter logs again. She'd eliminated several possible coordinates. But she still had a formidable task. She hoped to have the list narrowed down by the time she went off duty.

"Benjamin!" Dax called from the helm. "Mr. Stevens reports that impulse engines are now functioning." She turned around to smile at him. "He recommends against trying to break any speed records though."

Sisko nodded, allowing a slight upturn of the lips to show his amusement. "Duly noted," he said. "Will it help us with the scan?"

Dax shook her head, turning serious again. "Not really. The sensors need the time to do a thorough scan. If we go fast, we're likely to miss something."

Sisko sighed and stood. He needed some coffee. Two weeks already. Every day they were looking, they were less likely to find him. With proper sensors, they might have been able to detect the transporter traces on the planet or chroniton particles on the missing crewmembers. But the changeling had been thorough in its sabotage. By now, any remaining particles or traces would have dissipated. The only way to track the changeling was to scan for it in its gelatinous state while it was regenerating. At any other time, it would only scan as what it was portraying. The chances that the _Defiant_ would be overhead the exact location where the changeling was regenerating were, of course, very slim. And Bashir would always read as just another human. The only way to find him was to find the comm badge he had when he left the ship.

Kira met him at the table at the back of the bridge. She didn't look overly enthusiastic. "Captain, I've managed to eliminate all but one coordinate." In fact, she only looked tired.

"One coordinate," Sisko repeated. "Not one set of coordinates."

Kira shook her head. "If it's a complete coordinate," she explained, "that still leaves us with four different orbits around the planet to scan."

Sisko took a long sip of his coffee and looked at the PADD she handed him. She was right. Fifty-three degrees, as near as they could figure it. They would have to circle the Earth on both 53 degrees north and south latitude and east and west longitude to cover every possible location. But it was still better than continuing on as they were. "Good work, Major. As soon as we've finished the scan, we'll change course." He studied her face a moment. "Go get some sleep, Major."

"My shift isn't over," she argued. Sisko was about to insist; he could see she was exhausted. "We're all tired," she countered before he could say anything, "We all pull double shifts, remember? Unless you're going to give everyone an extra hour off, I won't be taking one."

Sisko decided not to argue. She could be stubborn, but to be honest, he felt the same way. He nodded and let her return to her station to draw up the course changes.

* * *

The _Blockälteste_ appointed the English-speaker as Bashir's guardian of sorts. And the man didn't seem to appreciate it much. As soon as the _Blockälteste_ walked away, the prisoner had looked Bashir over with distrust and obvious distaste. When after several minutes, he'd said nothing else, Bashir felt he should break the ice. It had been so refreshing just to hear those three words, "I speak English," spoken by another prisoner, he had almost forgotten about the cold and the gnawing hunger in his stomach. "I'm Julian. Julian Bashir," he said, extending his right hand forward.

The prisoner glanced at Bashir's hand, but made no move to take it. "What is an English doing here?" he asked roughly. His friend hovered close by, watching the exchange, and probably waiting for a translation.

"Same as you," Julian replied, noticing the six-pointed star on the prisoner's uniform. "Do you have a name?"

The prisoner snorted. "Here, we have only numbers."

"No," Bashir stated, "we still have names." He was starting to feel the cold again and his hand was throbbing. He waited to see if the prisoner would say anything.

But it was his friend that finally took the cue. "Piotr," he said simply. He pointed to himself as he said it. And he, in turn, held his hand out to Bashir. The first prisoner rolled his eyes and threw up his hands.

Bashir took it and smiled. "_To jest Szymon_," Piotr continued, pointing to his companion.

Bashir tried again to be polite. "Nice to meet you, Szymon. I wish it were under better circumstances."

"I don't know this word," Szymon snapped.

"A better time and a better place," Bashir tried to explain. "I wish we were not here."

"I look at you," Szymon said, now smiling just a little, "and I think you will not be here long." And then, just to be polite, he translated what he had said into something that sounded almost like German, so that all the other prisoners who were still staring could share the joke.

Bashir wasn't laughing. "How long have you been here?"

"I was here in October."

"That's a long time."

The _Blockälteste_ began yelling. "_Zehn Minuten!_" And the prisoners began scrambling inside. Bashir didn't want to be crushed in the crowd, so he hung back, even as Piotr and Szymon went in. There were more prisoners here than in his old block, so he went around the corner of the building and knelt down. His legs were tired of standing. He looked up and noticed a star peaking through a small break in the cloud of smoke that hung over the camp. It was soon covered up again, but Bashir found he couldn't take his eyes off that spot. _Szymon's right_, he thought, _I won't be here long. They'll find me. _

The melee at the front of the barracks began to die down, so he rose from his spot and hurried toward the door. He didn't want to get locked out or beaten for being slow. When he stepped inside he was amazed. There was hardly room to stand. Men filled each of the bunks and yet more men were struggling to climb into them. There was some fighting as people struggled for the best spots. The stronger ones seemed to find a place at the top. The weakest ones tried to get a space on the lowest bunks, though many were forced by shear crowding to crawl under the bunks and lay there. Bashir searched in vain for an open spot, but there simply was no room. Each of the men lay head to foot, six men or more per bunk.

Szymon caught his eye from the top bunk. His head was near the aisle. Piotr was sitting behind him. "You can sleep on the floor," Szymon said, trying to sound gracious. The whistle blew again and the door to the barracks was locked.

* * *

Until the _Blockälteste_ called for silence, there had been much discussion about the days event. Who had been selected? Would they be sent to the gas? By now there had been many rumors. After the selection, the entire barracks had been under _Blocksperre_, or block arrest. The prisoners weren't even allowed to go out in the courtyard. In a way, Max didn't mind. It was warmer, at least a little, indoors, out of the wind. There was no 'sport' and they hadn't had to participate in the roll call. But it was also fairly crowded.

Vláďa had disappeared again after their meager morning meal. He returned again just as the _Blockälteste_ called for lights out. "We don't have to worry," he whispered as he climbed up to the bunk. "We're on the good list."

"How do you know?" Max asked him.

Vláďa shook his head, still not meeting Max's gaze. "That doesn't matter. I don't know what happened to Bashir though."

"QUIET!" someone screamed. Max knew it would have to be the _Blockälteste_, but he turned to look anyway. All whispering stopped immediately. Everyone laid down and the lights were put out. Just before the room fell dark, Max turned back to Vláďa. But the boy seemed already to be asleep.

* * *

The floor was filthy, worse even than his old barracks, though to be honest, he hadn't spent much time paying attention to the floor there. He couldn't help it here. The two other men under the bunk where Bashir lay had only grudgingly moved over to give him room. It hadn't been easy for them. There was no room to turn over, and both of the men were so weak they could barely slide themselves over. Their bare legs, with no blanket to cover them, looked as if they were stripped of all muscle leaving only tightly stretched skin to cover the bones. They also had sores and cuts on their legs and hands and faces. Bashir realized that some of it could be caused by malnutrition and the lack of sanitation, but that still didn't account for all their problems.

One of the men slept with his hands inside his wooden clogs. The other didn't even have the clogs. His bare feet were missing some of their toes. Bashir, himself, had managed to slide under the bunk once they'd made room. He laid on his stomach with his coat wrapped tightly around his shoes and his injured hand resting on the floor beside him. He, too, had no blanket, and the air was frigid.

It didn't take long in this barracks for the noise to die down. Within minutes the prisoners, exhausted from their long day at work, were all asleep. Bashir, remembering the skittering sounds and the rats he'd seen in the other barracks, tried to stay awake, but the pain and exhaustion were too great.

It was sometime towards morning when they came. The sounds of struggling first came from those near the door. But it was only when one of the men beside him screamed that Bashir woke up. He was unable to turn to see what was happening. But he could hear them. There was a loud "thwack!" and something large and furry fell against Bashir's leg. Instantly, though, it moved, twisting and scratching to right itself. It had to be one of the rats.

Since he couldn't sit up or even turn over, Bashir decided that he'd have to move. Using his good arm, which had been tucked underneath him, he clawed the floor to his left and tried to pull himself out from under the bed. He felt a sharp pain in one of his calves which caused him to twist instinctively toward his attacker. But the first bunk was too close to the ground and his left shoulder hit it hard. Sinking down again, Bashir clutched his shoulder and tried not to lose consciousness again. Another bite sunk into his calf. He imagined himself getting eaten by giant rats. It was not how he had expected to die, even in this place.

Forcing himself to release his shoulder, he tried again to pull himself out into the small aisle. The rat attacking him still wouldn't let go. Its claws dug into the leg it was biting while its huge body lay across the other. Still, Bashir pulled and managed to slide his torso free from the bunk. Then he could twist himself over, forcing the rat to release his leg. Still, it didn't give up so easily and came at him to bite him again. Bashir could see now the man under the bunk. He clubbed at them incessantly with the clogs he had on his hands until, frustrated, they moved on to some other, less defensive, target.

Bashir's clogs were still wrapped in his coat under the bunk. And now, his only good arm was supporting his body, keeping him from falling backward into the wall behind him. But the rat was voracious, and though he kicked with his feet, it wouldn't stop coming back at him. Biting back a scream himself, Bashir reached his left arm, burning with pain so that it blocked even his sight, toward the bundle of stripes just under the edge. His hand brushed against them and his whole arm began to throb, from the tips of his broken fingers all the way to his back. He very nearly forgot the rat and his reason for wanting the bundle. His good arm lost its grip on the floor and he fell back into the wall, sending flames through his torn back.

It was too much. _Let it eat me_, he thought, as he heard the voices. __

There's not much left of him, Captain, Kira was saying. She made a disgusted sound. __

That is not an honorable way to die, Worf added disapprovingly. __

It's not like he could help it, Worf, O'Brien challenged angrily, defending the honor of his friend. _You saw what they did to him. _He spoke quieter now._ Managed for quite awhile, I'd say, considering. . . . _He let the last remark hang in the air. No one offered to finish it for him. __

"Stop gawking and help me!" he shouted to them in his mind, not realizing that the words were in fact audible.

"If you insist," a female voice quietly answered.

He looked at her as if through a mist. He could almost see the stunned faces of his crewmates as they turned to see the intruder. Whaley, hair shorn close and in striped camp uniform, knelt before him. She flung one arm out faster than Bashir could even see and snatched the rat's tail. Whipping it away, she snapped hard, letting its head smack into the wooden bunk.

"Now," she whispered in a seductive tone, "you best get some rest. It's only a few hours until reveille. If you don't sleep, you won't be ready for work. And if you're not ready for work, I'll put a bullet through your brain myself. Sweet dreams, Doctor." Leaving the dead rat's carcass lying beside his feet, she transformed herself into a cat, black as midnight, and silently jumped over Bashir's head onto the wall and scampered away.

Praying a small prayer that there were no more rats, Bashir used his feet to pull the bundle to him and then closed his eyes where he lay, letting the darkness fall over him. _Can't figure that one out at all_, O'Brien was saying.

* * *

Captain Sisko watched the sensor readout as they finished up the scan. He was almost relieved that they hadn't found Bashir toward the end. Considering the other transport points, he wouldn't have been surprised to find Bashir in Antarctica. As it was, without a signal, there was still some reason to hope.

But now that the scan was over, a new course had to be set. Kira had gone off duty three hours ago. She hadn't given a preference for which orbit to try first, and there was really no way to tell which one would be a better choice. So Sisko chose one at random. Longitude would make more sense, considering they were orbiting over the South Pole. "Set course to orbit the Earth at 53 degrees east longitude, Old Man."

Dax, who was looking less like her serene self every day, merely nodded. The image on the viewscreen immediately began to spin as the _Defiant_ turned. Sisko sat back down in his chair and watched the viewscreen as he cradled his cup. It was tea this time, decaffeinated. He would go off duty in one hour and he didn't want to be kept awake. It left him with too much to think about.

* * *

Morning came quickly, and with it, another roll call. Max climbed down from the bunk, secure in the knowledge that he and Vláďa had been put in the 'good' pile. But also, he felt guilty. The piles of paper, when he had seen them, seemed very unequal. He had no way of knowing which was the good pile and which the bad. But knowing the Germans, and hearing the rumors--rumors that Max now was sure were more true than not--about the gassings, Max was certain the larger pile was for those who would die. How many of the faces he was seeing now, as he prepared--as much as was possible--for morning roll call, would not be alive by evening?

The _Blockälteste_ was more vocal even than usual. "It has to be spotless! You filthy pigs! Move your carcasses. Faster!" For reasons unknown, the barracks had to be cleaned. They had to be cleaned every morning, to ridiculous standards given the conditions they were forced to live it. But this time was different. The block's staff seemed especially curt and offensive today.

There was a lull in the yelling for a moment, and Max looked toward the back of the barracks where the _Blockälteste_ had been. He was still there. He was talking to someone, but there were too many people in the way for Max to see. He wasn't sure why he felt he needed to see who it was, but still, he couldn't turn his eyes away. The _Blockälteste_ seemed almost friendly in the way he was putting his hand on his companion's shoulder. He shook his head and patted the shoulder of the man he was speaking to. He reached into his pocket and handed the man something. The bodies blocking Max's view moved, and he could now see who it was. The _Blockälteste_ touched Vláďa's face almost affectionately. The boy turned away, and so did Max. He thought about the crust of bread he still had stashed in his pocket. What had it cost the boy?

Time was running out. The _Blockälteste_ left Vláďa and returned to beating anyone who moved too slowly. Max turned back to his work. There would be no food until the _Blockälteste_ was satisfied that the barracks were clean. Finally, the doors opened and they were herded out into the dark, chill morning. Each man jostled to get to the front of the group, so that there might be time to use the latrine before roll call. Max was torn between his need to relieve himself and his rampant hunger. He'd even been dreaming about food lately. But the decision was made for him. It had taken too long to clean the barracks, and the pushing and shoving was too great. He would never even make it into the latrine in time. He did have time, though, to get his meager ration before the whistle called him to roll call.

Vláďa caught up to him there. "I think he went in the bad pile," he said. He seemed quite saddened by the thought, and Max thought it odd that he'd developed such an attachment for the doctor, especially when they'd never even had a conversation.

* * *

Roll call ended in chaos. Bashir had glimpsed it before from his place in line with his old barracks. But now, he was a part of it. As soon as the order was given, the straight rows and lines of five broke away in a mad rush to a dozen different places around the assembly ground. More than a dozen. Bashir couldn't see them all, and he certainly didn't have time to count them. "Follow me," Szymon ordered and then took off at a run. Bashir had a hard time keeping up and nearly lost him in the pandemonium of striped suits and shaven heads. But Piotr lagged just behind and motioned to him with his hand. Clear on the other side of the assembly ground, another group was forming lines five abreast. Szymon took a place in one of the lines and waved for Piotr to hurry and take a spot. Bashir was left to the outside. He hardly had time to get into line before the line began to move.

They marched at a jarring double-time, while another prisoner-leader led them in much the same manner as the _Blockälteste_ had, with blows and angry yelling. Two SS officers came along as well. Bashir recognized one as he ran past, easily keeping pace with his line. It was Heiler. "Good morning, Doctor," he said as he jogged along side. He was grinning, a cold, evil smile that made lies of all his words. "I trust you had a good night's sleep."

Bashir didn't answer. He tried not to even look at him. It wasn't hard really. He had a lot to think about. Walking had been painful and awkward for him, given the injury to his back, but running at double-time was even worse. Each step threatened to tear his back open again and jarred his shoulder. It also took a tremendous amount of effort. His legs felt heavy and uncooperative, though they still strove to obey him. The wooden clogs on his feet felt like cement blocks. He had no energy and his stomach growled. He'd missed breakfast. It had taken an inordinate amount of time to dress himself with only one arm.

The other SS officer held the reins of a large dog which growled menacingly and lunged at the prisoners. They ran past a barbed-wire gate onto a road of sorts, also lined with wire. Bashir noted at least three more rows of the long barrack buildings, then an area of smaller buildings set wider apart. To his right he could see more buildings, rows upon rows of them, maybe more than a hundred with others being built. A construction site lay ahead of them, on either side of the road.

Bashir couldn't tell what it was they were building. From what he knew of historic architecture, which wasn't much, it looked like an ordinary brick building. There were men dressed in civilian clothes there, too, and the Germans weren't mistreating them at all. They had to be civilians, but Bashir didn't know why they would be working in a camp like this. "_An die Arbeit, du dreckiges Schwein!_" Heiler screamed, jarring him back to attention.

Piotr grabbed Julian's arm and pulled him through the snow to another area. Thin bands of iron cris-crossed a long rectangular area on the ground. More of the wire lay piled up to the side. "We make the top," Szymon grudgingly explained.

Before Bashir could puzzle out just what the man had said, Szymon pushed one end of the wire at him. It was cold, having sat out all night under the snow. Piotr and Szymon lifted the wire farther down, and they all dragged it to the rectangle marked out in the snow. Some other men were beginning to mix cement and Bashir realized what they must be trying to do. The iron wire was reinforcement of some kind. They were laying it down in the rectangle on the ground to make "the top," as Szymon had said: a ceiling. But the ceiling to what? Bashir took another look at the building and noted a tall thick chimney rising from the back of it.

Trying to move his left hand as little as possible, Bashir did his part to lay the wire. It was difficult. To lay it properly, the prisoners had to stand in the rectangle amongst the wire that was already lain. Bashir's wooden clogs kept slipping and getting caught in the mesh of it. Still, he didn't want to be beaten for not working, and he didn't want Szymon to think that he wasn't doing his share. He needed Szymon.

Once in place, they used smaller bits of wire to twist around the thicker iron rebar to hold it in place. The ceiling to whatever they were building was quite wide, but much longer, and it took a long time to twist the little wires, which were as thick as nails. And he had to do it bent over, reaching down, while trying to keep his balance. His back flared in pain from it. His shoulder hurt from the change of attitude, with gravity now pulling it a different way. Only his hand seemed not to protest too much. The cold wire mixed with the wind was making it numb. It was hard to see from behind all that pain, and the other Nazi guard kept yelling at him to move faster.

But it was Heiler who spoke to him. Bashir hadn't even heard him come over. He nearly fell over when he saw the boots suddenly standing there. The still shiny, black boots stepped gently onto the wire framework they were laying. "It's quite an ambitious project really," he said when he didn't think the others would hear, "building four crematoria to burn humans more efficiently. They've been using a farmhouse to kill them. It's messy. This will be much more orderly. You have to admire them for that."

A crematorium. Bashir had guessed it once he saw the chimney. But what was he to do? If he refused to work, they'd kill him. And he didn't expect that Heiler would allow him to change. She obviously wanted to keep him where she could keep a closer eye on him.

"This will be the undressing room," she explained. "You're standing on it. How many humans can fit in this room, do you think?"

Bashir was nearing the end of the wire, and he could see that Szymon and Piotr had finished too. They were going for another long piece. Bashir straightened to go after them, but it was too difficult now that he was bent over. His knees couldn't take the shift in weight and he fell. The hard wire bit into his kneecaps, and only his right arm reaching out in front of him kept him from going all the way down.

Heiler above him, looked to see if anyone had noticed. The dog barked somewhere nearby. "_Steh' auf!_" he yelled, bringing his foot down on Bashir's back. Bashir's hand slipped through the wire and he crashed down against it. There was no protecting his left hand this time. It was caught between his body and the wire. "_Steh' auf!_" Heiler yelled again.

Bashir hardly heard him, struggling as he was to free himself of the wire without losing consciousness. He was afraid he'd never wake up if that happened. She kicked him again, but he tried to crawl to the side off the ceiling they were making and out of the wire mesh.

* * *

After roll call, those whose numbers had landed in the bad pile were called out and taken away. Several of them cried, others tried to prove that they were healthy and asked loudly to be given another chance. Max lowered his eyes. He couldn't bear to see them part. They were going to die. When they were gone, the _Blockälteste_ continued on with the drilling as if nothing had happened.

* * *

By 1300, they were back again at the southern tip of the planet. And still, the sensors had picked up nothing. Kira sat again in the command chair. She had hoped to have something better to report to the captain when he returned to duty. Instead, all she had was a change of course. This time, they would take the west line, 53 degrees, and circle the planet again.

Kira sipped the raktajino she held in her hand and read the morning's status reports. No new progress in Engineering, though the crew still had a lot of work to do to get the ship into shape to make the trip back to the twenty-fourth century. Medical had requested immediate restoration of power to at least one stasis chamber. Ensign Nohtsu was bleeding internally, and without Julian, they were unable to help her. Kira had approved the request as soon as she received it. Security was turning up a lot of new evidence from the changeling, showing how it had traveled from system to system within the walls and conduits to sabotage the ship. Worf, though not an expert in engineering was working on the computer in Whaley's quarters. He was trying to figure out what information the changeling had accessed while it was on board. It might give some sort of clue as to what its plan was or where it sent the doctor.

She realized now that it was exactly fourteen days since he'd disappeared. Two weeks. And still there was no sign of him. It was strange really. All the other comm badges had registered on the sensors as soon as they were within range. Kira was starting to see now what Sisko meant when he said the changeling had singled him out. And it made her all that much more determined to find him. She'd even begun praying about it, hoping that the Prophets would still hear her all the way out here in this foreign time and place. Still, she had a feeling, a strangely calming feeling, that they wouldn't find him today.

* * *

The rest of the day proceeded much like the morning had. Heiler constantly shadowed Bashir, looking for any opportunity to torment him. The only respite had been a short break for the mid-day meal. Bashir had decided he couldn't dignify it by calling it lunch. Given his condition, he could not fight to get a better place in line and ended up very near the end of the line completely. When it came his turn for soup, the large can was nearly empty. A few spoonfuls of the thin liquid were all that he got before he had to go back to work again. By the time the sun began to set, his hands, both of them, were bleeding and his face bruised. He could barely stand. The prisoner-leader--_kapo_, Szymon had explained to him during the meal--yelled at them to fall into line and Bashir gladly obeyed. He was exhausted and only wished to return to the barracks and sleep. More than that though, he wanted to eat. Even the rotten meat and stale bread would be good enough by this time.

Szymon had a measure of pity on him this time after watching his ordeal with Heiler all day. He moved over to let Bashir have the center place in the line. The _kapo_ spent several minutes counting them before he yelled again. The line began to move, again at double-time retracing its steps back the way it had come. It was even harder returning to the camp. Bashir could feel the warm liquid oozing from his back, and his legs threatened to abandon him at every step. He didn't notice the new buildings this time as he passed. He concentrated as much as possible on the ground directly in front of him where his feet would have to go. He felt dizziness somewhere just below the pain and found it hard even to focus on the ground.

But he had forgotten about roll call. They reached the camp and were even within sight of the barracks when the _kapo_ called for them to stop. Panting for breath, Bashir wanted to drop to his knees, to sit down, or to lay down, but with the Germans watching, he knew it was impossible. Several others from the kommando fell and were placed beside the two dead men they had carried back from the work site. Still the counting went on. The sky, when he could glimpse it beyond the smoke and lights of the camp, was dark, but still the counting continued.

Snow began to fall again, lightly dusting the shoulders of the men around him. He didn't feel it. His vision blurred and doubled and his body swayed slightly to the side though he tried to stand perfectly still. And then the whistle blew. The lines broke up and the prisoners began to work their way to the barracks. Szymon stopped to look at him for a moment. Bashir didn't see it. He was still trying just to stay on his feet. "You must eat," Szymon said, and Bashir thought it was the kindest thing he'd said to him yet. But he still couldn't move. He couldn't trust his legs to carry him. "Fine, stay and . . . " Frustrated, Szymon searched for the right word. "Stay and don't eat. It's not my caring." He trudged away into the crowd.

But Piotr stayed behind. He turned Bashir by his shoulder in the direction of the barracks. Bashir wobbled, but he didn't fall and he found that his legs would work after all. And Simon was right: He needed to eat. Piotr helped him this time, to get to a better place in line. He received his ration and hungrily ate the sausage. His hand shook as he held the bread, but he ignored it. Some of the others were fighting to get into the latrine. Bashir resigned himself to the fact that he couldn't satisfy every biological need and found a corner of the building to sit against as he ate. The snow stopped and the wind parted the smoke above him until he could count five dim stars in the heavens.

He almost fell asleep there, but a touch on his shoulder woke him with a stabbing pain. A prisoner, one he didn't recognize, stood above him. He motioned for him to go inside. Then he turned and left Bashir alone. He stuffed the last of his bread into his coat and tried to stand. It took nearly five minutes just to get upright again.

The block was just as full as it had been the night before, with the exception of the men who had died during the day. Still, he was not able to find a bunk. But he couldn't bear sleeping underneath them again. The bunks had trapped him before, so that he was defenseless against the huge rats. He found his corner, the one he had curled into the day before, when the changeling had first brought him here. It was empty. Just before the _Blockälteste_ called for lights out, he wedged himself down inside again, keeping his shoes and coat near him. Despite the cold and his lack of blanket, he was asleep in minutes.

* * *

He didn't get to sleep for long. The rats came earlier than the previous night, and the screaming, crying and groaning of the men being attacked woke him. Again, since he was on the floor, Bashir was approached by one of the rodents, but he was not as vulnerable as before when he'd been pinned underneath the bunks. He kept his legs pulled up close to his chest, but still the rat charged his toes. He clutched his heavy wooden clogs now as he'd seen the other man do and beat at the rat when it came near. He missed a few times as the rat backed away quickly and hit his own toes. He decided, though, that it was better than being eaten.

The changeling didn't come again this night, or at least he wasn't aware of her if she had. But the rats didn't go away until nearly morning, and, exhausted, Bashir let his head fall again against the wall. He closed his eyes and let the dreamless sleep come. He was awoken soon after by the _Blockälteste_'s voice. Morning again.

He was still exhausted, but he was determined this time to get to the latrine _and_ receive his morning rations. He didn't think he could possibly survive the day of work with so little sleep and so little food. He noticed as he got dressed that at least a dozen prisoners were carried outside. The dead. They would be counted with the rest at roll call and then taken out to be burned or buried. Bashir watched them coldly, feeling little of anything for them, but thinking that he should. But as they left the barracks for the last time, his mind was preoccupied with their former sleeping arrangements. Their lives, sadly, were over. They wouldn't be needing the bunks anymore. Perhaps he could get a place on one in the evening and maybe get a little bit of sleep.

The day proceeded much like the previous one, except that he did procure his breakfast. He wasn't sure how today he had managed when before he hadn't. But the morning roll call relieved him of whatever burst of energy he'd had in the morning. He'd very nearly decided to join the men lying at the side. Some were the dead. Others were the ones who fell during roll call or who were too sick to move. Bashir felt that he could move, painful as it may be, but standing still in the cold air was nearly as much torture as he'd already been subjected to. As they stood, he watched the morning sun take over the darkened sky until it shined brightly, adding only a tint of warmth with its rays. Still, they stood.

He tried sleeping, while still standing, but it wasn't a deep sleep and he was always afraid of falling or having a _kapo_ catch him at it. He could do little more than close his eyes anyway before he felt dizzy and nearly lost his balance. He itched from the lice that had invaded his filthy clothes and his unshorn hair, but knew he couldn't scratch anything. He had heard a word spoken among the block leaders and the German guards, one he could recognize. Typhus. And it was carried by lice and thrived in the horrible sanitary conditions in which the prisoners were forced to live. It was another thing to worry about, but also something he couldn't control. He couldn't even wash his hands properly, let alone take a shower and keep clean. He ate his food, what little there was of it, out of the same foul bowl everyday and wore the same smelly, disgusting clothes that he'd been handed his first day there.

Finally, the Germans were satisfied with the count and the lines broke up to form their work groups. Dragging his legs with difficulty, Bashir found Szymon and Piotr and followed them to his kommando. As he began the march, he wondered if he'd be alive to march back to roll call in the evening.

* * *

The west longitude scan was no more successful than the east longitude or even the spiraling scan had been. There was still no signal from Bashir's comm badge, and as yet, the crew had been unable to come up with another method for finding the doctor. Any trace of the transport on the planet's surface had dissipated before the lateral sensors had even come on line. And Bashir himself would simply blend in with the rest of the planet's population. The badge was still their only method. O'Brien and a few of his team were now working on a way to boost the sensors to detect the actual communicator badge, not just its signal. There were specific alloys and components not accessible or still undiscovered in this time. But comm badges were small. They could easily fit in the palm of one hand, a small hand. The sensors would have to be very sensitive to locate such small quantities of the target alloys. The forward sensors were still, and would remain, unusable, and the laterals were still not up to full specs. O'Brien had not looked hopeful when asked if they could be improved. He had thought that maybe he could coax a ten percent increase in their strength and scanning sensitivity, but he wasn't sure if it would be enough.

Still, they couldn't stand still and wait for the signal. With the _Defiant_'s low sensor range, they might miss it entirely. So when Dax returned to duty, she was ordered to change course to follow an orbit at fifty-three degrees south latitude, a course that only crossed land once at the southern tip of South America with the exception of a few small islands. Lieutenant Jordan had been "relieved to be relieved," as he put it. He suppressed another yawn and headed for the mess hall for a bite to eat before he slept. Dax knew just how he felt. Everyday, the rest period seemed shorter even though the actual number of hours never changed. Sixteen hours was a long shift to pull. She'd done it often enough that she hadn't thought it a big deal when they'd first begun to look for the missing crewmembers. But this was her sixteenth day of consecutive duty, not counting the shifts before the _Defiant_ went back in time. It was a long time. And it didn't look to be getting any shorter.

She was also slightly annoyed that she never got to see Worf anymore except while on duty. His shift ended at 2000, while she was off from 0800 to 1600. Sometimes when she was really tired she'd even found herself angry at Julian for being missing, and it made her feel guilty. She knew it wasn't his fault, and, wherever he was, he was probably no happier about the situation than she was. So she always made a conscious effort to shift her anger back onto the changeling that had infiltrated the ship and caused the deaths of sixteen people already.

Worf never even said anything to her about it. She knew he wouldn't though. His Klingon honor would not let him admit in the presence of others his frustration at not seeing her. He spoke to her only in a business-like manner that concerned their duties. That frustrated her, too, but she knew there was really nothing she could do about it. He wouldn't change, and under other circumstances, or a shorter duration of double shifts, she probably would never expect him to. But the time and tension were catching up to her.

The only respite she felt was the breaks. Every few hours, the bridge crew got a break. It was staggered so that no system was ever left unmanned, but it did allow for a little bit of socializing during the overlap moments. Dax tried to arrange her first break to coincide with the end of Worf's final break before he went off duty. She shared the others generally with Kira or Benjamin.

Other times she was left alone at the table at the back of the bridge. It was then that she missed Julian. She remembered the many times before Worf came to the station--and even some after--that she had shared a table with him on the Promenade sipping raktajino after a long day's work. Even when he had been chasing her, and so much more once he'd stopped, he was a wonderful companion. She had to admit, Worf was somewhat boring when it came to sitting and sipping--though he excelled in other areas. But Julian was pleasant and always interested in what she had to say. He understood her when she spoke of science and was always willing to sit and listen to her talk about Worf, though she knew he really wasn't that interested. He was too polite to tell her so. He was a good listener and a good friend. And she couldn't help feeling that he was gone now and he wouldn't be coming back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Nine**

Julian Bashir couldn't keep his hands from shaking. Or his knees for that matter. He knew it wasn't just the cold. It was exhaustion. He guessed it was only noon. It was hard to tell because the smoke blocked out the sun. He had only been working for three or four hours, but already his muscles felt like they were going to explode from over-exertion. His arms ached terribly, especially the left. He knew he should not be moving it at all, but he didn't have a choice. The second SS, luckily, had not taken notice of the particular way he held it or of his bandaged hand. But Bashir knew if he ever did, he'd be counted unfit and killed. And despite the pain, the fatigue, and even the hunger, he still wanted to live. He wanted to see the _Defiant_ and the station again. And he wanted to live long enough to see the changeling die, preferably by his own hand.

His eyes blurred because he felt dizzy, and it was hard to see the little wires he was twisting. His numb fingers frequently slipped off the tool he used. It would fall down between the bars of wire, and he would have to bend down farther to retrieve it, usually with his left hand. His right was too busy supporting his imbalanced weight. Picking up the tool was incredibly difficult since he couldn't get the crushed bones of his hand to work correctly, when they would work at all. And of course, all this would cause Heiler endless moments of entertainment as she very effectively played the role of the SS officer. She also had to keep watch on the rest of the kommando, but whenever she came back around to him, she taunted him or pushed him down among the labyrinth of cold, black wire, just so she could watch him struggle to stand up again.

When she or her partner wasn't around, it was the _kapo_'s job to keep the kommando working. He mostly just yelled at the other prisoners to work faster, but when the SS came into sight, he'd be more forceful, even to the point of violence. When the SS were gone, he would calm back down and return to verbal threats. Bashir noticed this and saw it as a kindness of sorts, perhaps as much as the _kapo_ could afford under the circumstances. His verbal threats amounted to nothing so long as the SS were not around. But when the SS were watching, perhaps out of fear for his own life, he met their expectations for cruelty, showing himself worthy of his heightened position.

It was unfortunate then, that Bashir was the weakest link in the kommando. He couldn't work any faster or less clumsily, no matter how he tried. Though he tried hard not to dwell on them, his injuries were severe, even life-threatening should they become infected--and he expected they would become infected in due course from the lack of sanitation. They kept him from performing to higher standards, even though in his top form he would have found the work difficult given the long duration of labor without a break and the constant stress and fear meted out by the guards. He tried to concentrate instead on his work, not the whole job in general though--he didn't want to think about building a gas chamber--but the individual tasks: each small wire that he twisted around the rebar to form the mesh of reinforcement. Still, he was slow and clumsy, and the _kapo_ spent most of the time, when the SS could see, focusing his attention on Bashir.

He was surprised then when the _kapo_ called him over to him. The SS were at the other side of the site. Another prisoner was waiting there with the _kapo_, one Bashir had seen in the barracks or at the line for food. "_Bring die Suppe,_" he said, speaking in German, though he didn't say it angrily. "_Und beeil dich. Alle hier haben Hunger._" The other man nodded and began to walk away. "_Geh mit ihm,_" the _kapo_ told Bashir, motioning with his hand that he should follow.

So Bashir turned and tried to hurry to catch the man. He had stopped a few meters away to wait for him. He didn't say anything when Bashir reached him, but he continued down the road. He walked quickly at first and it was difficult to keep up, but Bashir was relieved not to have to march double-time wherever they were going. After they had gone some distance from the site, the man slowed to a more leisurely stroll. He lifted his head to the smoke-covered sky and stretched his arms. "_Parlez-vous français?_" he asked, still looking at the sky.

Suddenly the walking was less difficult. It was amazing to Bashir how much a familiar word could bring him to life again, even if it only lasted a few minutes. "_Oui_," he answered excitedly. He even smiled.

"_Vous ne comprennez pas l'allemand._" The man hadn't asked if he understood the language. It was apparently obvious to the other prisoners that he didn't speak German.

Bashir shook his head. He was glad to have someone to talk to. "_Où allons-nous?_" he asked, wondering where the _kapo_ had sent them.

"_À la cuisine_," the man answered, "_pour la soupe._"

The soup. It was time for the midday meal. Bashir had seen two men carry the soup onto the work site the day before. The soup came in a large can, close to a meter in height. It looked to be quite heavy.

The Frenchman seemed to know what he was thinking. "_Il est difficile_," he said, looking Bashir over, "_mais il est meilleur que le travail. Nous puvons marcher lentement et il n'y a aucun SS. Heiler ne vous aime pas._"

Bashir thought about it and had to agree. The walk to the kitchen would be worth the difficulty of the trip back. The SS had stayed with the kommando. The Frenchman and he were free to walk as slowly as they liked. And, no, Heiler certainly did not like him.

"_Comment vous appellez-vous?_" the Frenchman asked.

"_Je m'appelle_ Bashir, Julian Bashir," Bashir introduced himself. He even held out his hand to the man.

The man smiled and took it, and it seemed for a moment like the world had returned to civility. "Henri," he said. "Henri Bresalier." He released Bashir's hand, but didn't let go of his own smile. "_Vous êtes anglais._"

Bashir nodded and wondered if the whole camp knew that he was English.

Henri stopped and motioned that Bashir should stop, too. "I," he began slowly, obviously thinking carefully before he spoke, "want. . . ." He paused as he searched for the word. ". . . learning this English." It was a valiant effort, at least in Bashir's eyes. He wasn't sure exactly why this man wanted to learn English here, but it seemed a good way for Bashir to make a friend, or at least an ally. "You learn to me?" the Frenchman continued.

Bashir opened his mouth to say tell him that, of course, he would try to teach him English, but then he hit on an idea. "_Où dormez-vous?_" he asked. He was hoping that Henri occupied a bunk back in the barracks and had a little room to share. He didn't think he could take another sleepless night fighting rats on the floor.

Henri seemed to understand. His smile was gone, but his eyes showed sympathy. _"Vous dormez sur la plancher avec les rats._" He sighed and looked away, thinking. He started to walk again. "This is difficult," he said, trying his limited English again. Bashir appreciated that he tried. He would probably make a good student. "It is many people."

"How many people?" Bashir asked, trying to keep his words simple so that Henri would understand. "How many sleep with you?"

He considered his answer for a moment. "_Heir_," he began in French, "was six. One now is _mort_."

That left five. It was still crowded, but if they'd slept six in a bunk before, perhaps he could still have the recently vacated spot. But Henri didn't seem so sure. "_Pourquoi voulez-vous apprendre l'anglais?_"

"_Après la guerre_," Henri replied, "_je voudrais habiter en Amérique. J'ai une sur qui habite au Missouri._"

Bashir had never been to Missouri, but it sounded like a wonderful place to be right about now. In the middle of America, away from the dangers of the war, and very far away from Auschwitz. He hoped Henri would live to see his sister again and have his chance to go to Missouri after the war. But it would be difficult. He had two more years to go before the war would end.

They walked awhile longer without saying anything. Warehouses came into view. "_C'est difficile_," Henri repeated. "_Maintenant, il y a cinq hommes dans le lit_," he laughed a little at calling the bunk a bed.

"_Mais, heir, il y avait six_," Bashir countered. If there had been six yesterday, it would make no difference to have six again.

Henri shook his head. "_Je ne sais pas_. All is. . .," he gestured with his hands to try and be understood, "near. _Serré._"

Bashir didn't look at the Frenchman as they walked. Of course, five men was still crowded, but he was desperate. He was barely managing now, injured as he was. He would never survive if he stayed on the floor every night barely getting any sleep before the rats came. He would be exhausted before he ever got to roll call. And he'd get beaten at work for not being fast enough. Then he'd become weaker and weaker, and one day, he'd be too weak to fight the rats.

As he walked he had a thought. He was a doctor. He knew there wasn't much that he could do, but it might still be useful to someone to have a doctor nearby in this place. "_Je suis médecin._" He said it confidently, hoping that Henri would think it of as much importance as he pretended it was.

Henri stopped. "_Vraiment?_" he asked, looking not a little skeptical. "_Pourquoi travaillez-vous ici? Là,_" he pointed to the right where a smaller group of buildings stood, "_est l'hôpital._" __

Hospital? Bashir thought. _Here?_ He looked closer at the group of buildings, and then he looked down at his hand, still somewhat protected inside his shirt pocket.

Henri must have guessed what he was thinking. He shook his head. "_C'est trés dangereux. Il y a beaucoup de selections là. Les malades sont gazés. Vous_," he paused to point a warning finger at Bashir, "_vous serez gazé aussi._"

Bashir sighed and began walking again. Henri was right. He remembered hearing that now. The SS doctors would go to the hospital often for selections among the sick. And Bashir knew he could not hope to pass a selection. As much as he hated being obliged to the changeling, he had to admit that he'd been lucky last time. She had come for him before it started. He didn't know how often the selections were outside the hospital, but it would be taking too much of a chance inside. But then, that could be to his advantage, too. After all, if it was too dangerous to go to the hospital, wasn't it better to have a doctor right in your own barracks, or even your bunk? He told Henri this, and waited for a reaction.

He had to wait awhile, but finally Henri spoke. "_Je dois en discuter avec les autres._"

Bashir thought that he was getting through to Henri. He only hoped Henri could convince the others, but he wouldn't know until they returned to the barracks that night. They didn't talk of it again. Instead they talked about "before the war." Bashir had been worried at first, but it turned out to be rather easy. He could talk about Paris and Palis, his ex-fiancee, as if it was only a few years ago and not several centuries in the future. He talked about his friends and England, too, and listened to Henri describe his family. Bashir knew he was winning Henri over when the Frenchman began telling him everything about his sister and how he should meet her.

They reached the kitchen at last, but Bashir thought it too soon. Though, of course, he was hungry, he hadn't wanted the almost leisurely walk to end. For that short time, he had felt some of his fear drop away. Now pain and exhaustion would replace it until they arrived back at the work site where terror would take over again. The can they had to carry was large and heavy. Henri politely told him to take the left side, so that he could carry it with his good arm, but it was still very difficult. Henri had trouble as well. They were both weakened from hunger and overwork, but somehow they got the can to move a few meters before setting it back down. A little bit of the watery swill slopped to the ground, and Bashir felt guilty for his clumsiness. He might have just cost someone his meal. Perhaps himself.

The walk back was longer and not nearly as pleasant as the walk to the kitchen had been. In fact, it was nearly as much torture as the work had been, though Bashir admitted there were no _kapos_ or SS to beat them for being slow. At least not yet.

* * *

Max began to worry more when Vláďa stopped coming to the bunk at night. He always showed up before morning, and always with some extra food which he shared, but he averted his eyes and never spoke of where he'd been. If asked, he would change the subject. He always wanted to talk about after the war. He said that maybe he would go to England after the war. He would try to find Bashir's family and tell them that he was dead. Max tried to tell him that it would be very difficult to find one man's family. Bashir hadn't even said where he had lived there. In fact, he had said very little at all since neither of them spoke English. He suggested to Vláďa that he go back to Prague and try to find his own family. But the boy didn't want to talk about that either. He would turn away and disappear into the sea of striped uniforms. And Max would wonder if he was going back to the _Blockälteste_.

Tonight was like the others. Vláďa hung close to Max and seemed afraid to leave him. He sat very close to him while they ate. He talked a lot, about what he would do after the war, about what he thought England was like, about how far it was from Poland. America was even farther, or Australia. Maybe he would go there after the war. He talked quickly, like he was nervous and never saved any of his food for later, like Max advised him. Max need not have worried so much about food though. Vláďa actually seemed to be gaining weight. He was still thin, still hungry often, but not like the others. The _Blockälteste_ was giving him good food, or at least better than what was given to the other _zugänge_, the camp word for the new inmates, like Max, who were still in quarantine and not expected to survive to be accepted into the main camp. Vláďa had learned all about that from his disappearings, though he never admitted that the _Blockälteste_ had told him.

The main camp was worse, he said, because they would have to work all day long. But Max wasn't sure that was worse. Maybe it was no better, but it could hardly be worse than quarantine. The 'sport' was perhaps entertaining to the _Blockälteste_ and his German commanders, but it was torture for the _zugänge_. Max had it a little easier than most of the others because Vláďa shared his extra food. But still the vigorous exercises everyday were, to say the least, exhausting. For some, they were deadly. There hadn't been a day yet where someone--usually more than one--didn't die from the workout. And roll call always took a few more.

Vláďa fidgeted as he sat eating his tiny portion of sausage. "_Zehn Minuten!_" the _Blockälteste_ called. Vláďa nearly jumped. He sighed hard and handed his bread to Max saying that he couldn't eat anymore.

"You don't have to go," Max said, sensing the boy's fear.

Vláďa looked up at him then, for the first time in weeks, and his eyes were filled with sadness and a pleading. He wished it was true. Then he climbed down off the bunk and disappeared in the direction of the _Blockälteste_'s little room.

* * *

Bashir sat in what was becoming his usual spot, with his back facing the wall, just around the corner from the barracks door. The stars were completely obscured this time, so he watched the billowing smoke float by instead. He wasn't really sitting. The ground was too wet and muddy. His clothes, for the most part, were currently dry and he didn't want to change that. So he was crouched beside the barracks. He was tired but, as yet, he had no place to sleep. Curfew wasn't for another quarter of an hour. Or so he guessed. There was no clock in the barracks or any other way to tell the time except by the activities of the camp. Roll call had just ended, and the sky was dark. But the barracks was still open. Curfew was at nine o'clock according to the _Blockälteste_. So one could deduce that it was before nine, but still rather late. Henri was inside trying to convince the other inmates who shared his bunk to let Bashir sleep there as well.

"You are a doctor?"

The question, in English, came as a surprise to him. He looked up to see Szymon looking back down at him. As always, Piotr was beside him.

"You might as well sit down," Julian sighed. He was too tired to be friendly with the surly Pole. "I'm not standing up until I have to."

Szymon made no retort. He didn't even change expressions, but he moved to Bashir's right and crouched down beside him. "This is true?"

Bashir thought about his answer. By the regulations of Starfleet's Temporal Policy, he should not have told anyone that he was a doctor. They would expect him to help them, and saving lives, no matter how much he would want or feel the need to do it, would likely change the timeline in unpredictable ways. But, as he'd learned before in the Sanctuary District, Temporal Policy was easier in the classroom. This was real. People were dying and he was one of them. Besides, he had already surmised before that there was little he could do as a doctor here. Saving lives was out of his reach. "It's true. I am a doctor."

Szymon looked skeptical but he translated the words for Piotr anyway. "Does the SS know this?"

Bashir lifted his left hand slightly, careful not to move his shoulder at all. "They did this to me because I am a doctor. I was a surgeon."

"Surgeon? What is this?"

Bashir tried to think of an easier way to explain it. "I did operations."

Szymon nodded and told Piotr what Bashir had said. "This is why," he asked, pointing to Bashir's broken fingers, "you do not make operations in the hospital?"

Bashir nodded but explained further. "I did not know there was a hospital here. Are there medicines there?"

"No," Szymon answered. "Only some. Mostly is there death."

A small crowd of perhaps a dozen men was gathering. A few hunched down beside the three of them, but most stood in a semicircle around them, wrapping their blankets or coats tight around their shoulders. One of them was Henri. Bashir gave him a hopeful look.

When he spoke, he spoke instead to Szymon in heavily accented German. Szymon rolled his eyes up at him, apparently not happy with his new role as Block interpreter. But he did relay the message. "You must show this operation."

Bashir didn't understand. What operation? And how could he show it? An operation required instruments and two working hands. Bashir didn't think he could count even his right hand as qualified. The crowd parted and a short man was brought to him. He knelt down in the snow and mush and held out his hand to Bashir. It was wrapped with a worn piece of cloth that showed a dark stain just over his palm. Bashir was beginning to understand. He had to help the man to gain their trust, and hopefully, a place on the bunks. But he still didn't know how he could help.

Studying their faces, he knew he had to do something. So very carefully, he unwrapped the cloth, keeping his left hand still laying against his thigh. There was a gash across the man's palm at least two inches long and quite deep. It was still oozing blood despite the bandaging. Back on the station or in the _Defiant_'s sickbay, such a cut would be easy to heal. A few moments with a dermal regenerator and the hand would be like new. But here, in this time, he would need stitches. Bashir didn't even have common sewing thread, let alone surgical thread. And neither did he have a needle. He would also need to clean the wound, to keep it from infection and clean cloth to wrap it with. All that seemed impossible here. For now, he merely pushed his own thumb over the cut, squeezing the man's hand as hard as his weakened fingers would allow. The man did not protest, but his face showed his discomfort.

"Tell him to do this," Bashir told Szymon, motioning with his chin how he was holding the man's wound. Szymon obeyed and Bashir let go of his hand. The man clamped it tight with his other hand. "He needs stitches," Bashir said, but at Szymon's confused stare he held up his hand making what he hoped was a comprehensible motion for sewing.

Szymon got the message and turned to the crowd. "_Hat hier irgend jemand Nadel und Faden?_" he asked, first in German, then Polish and then back to German, but with a different dialect. _Yiddish_, Bashir thought. _These people are Jews. They probably speak Yiddish. _

There was a lot of hurried mumbling as the interested parties turned to their neighbors to see if they had what was required. One man spoke excitedly. "_Mein Bruder im Block nebenan ist Schneider. Vielleicht hat er welche._"

"_Geh, schnell,_" Szymon told him, standing up. "_Beeil dich, es ist bald Zeit!_" The man ran away quickly, and Szymon resumed his crouch. "Maybe he will organize this," he told Bashir.

Bashir didn't quite understand, but there was nothing else to say until the man returned. They had to wait several minutes, but he soon came running back. He looked over his shoulder fearfully. "_Ein SS-Mann hätte mich fast gesehen,_" he said.

"_Hast Du es?_" Szymon asked impatiently.

"_Nur die Nadel,_" the man answered and he carefully opened his coat and squinted hard in the darkness. But finally he found what he was looking for and pulled a small needle from the lining of his striped coat. "_Ich muß sie bis morgen vor dem Appell zurück bringen._"

Szymon grabbed it from him and spoke again, "_Wir brauchen etwas Faden. _How much?" he asked Bashir. He held out his hands about six inches apart. Realizing that he must be talking about thread, Bashir pulled Szymon's left hand farther from his right. Szymon stood and showed with his hands the length that was required. "_Marek, wiem, że masz nitkę,_" he said to one man in particular who tried to look uninterested in the whole affair. "_Wziałeś ją z naszywek._"

"_Tak, wziałem. Dla siebie,_" the man retorted defensively.

"_No, dawaj, Marek._" Szymon tried to convince him, and Bashir was surprised at the effort the usually cold Szymon was giving to the cause of this demonstration. "_Jeśli on naprawde jest lekarzem, to będzie warte więcej niż kawałek nitki._"

"_A jeśli nie jest, to nie będę miał nitki._" The man seemed unwilling to bend. Finally others in the crowd joined Szymon in trying to coerce him until finally he gave in. He pulled a piece of thread perhaps a third of a meter in length from one of the pockets in his pants and handed it to Szymon who passed it to Bashir.

Julian was amazed. Despite the conditions, the prisoners were resourceful. Bashir now had a needle and thread. It would have been wonderful if he'd had some scissors or a knife, but he didn't bother to ask. The SS probably wouldn't allow those things. They could be too dangerous. He would have to make due with breaking the thread. But it still wasn't enough. He really needed two hands. He turned to Henri, who had thus far been the most helpful person in the barracks. "_Aidez moi, s'il vous plaît,_" he said, holding up the thread and needle to him.

Henri saw what was needed and knelt beside the patient. He also had to squint to see the needle. The rest of the crowd caught the hint and crouched down, giving him whatever light was available. He threaded the needle more easily then and handed it back to Bashir.

"_Zehn Minuten!_" the _Blockälteste_ cried out. Now the pressure was on.

In the end, it turned out that the bunk was as crowded as Henri had said it was. Everyone had to lay on his side in order to fit, and someone was pressed against him on either side. But it was still better than sleeping on the floor. His own head was facing the aisle between the two rows of bunks just across from Szymon and Piotr. Henri was behind him and the short man with the cut was in front. Because of his height, Bashir did get a little extra room above the man's feet to lay his broken hand.

And Julian Bashir slept a little better knowing that he had gained the confidence of at least a few people in this new barracks. Henri had even spoken to him using the informal "_tu_" in place of "_vous_." It meant he was now considered a friend. As for the stitches, he doubted his professors would have approved, but he had done well considering his limitations. He had made nearly a dozen stitches and tied nearly a dozen knots all without moving his left hand. And despite the numbness of his fingers and the shakiness of his hands, the stitches had come out straight. Someone had donated a small bit of relatively clean cloth, and the wound was wrapped again, and all before the _Blockälteste_ called for lights out.

* * *

Dax was the unfortunate one this time. It was twelve hundred hours, right in the middle of her time off. But it was a time when all the rest of the senior staff was on duty, so she was outnumbered. Sisko offered to try and make the meeting short, but she didn't complain. She might have teased him about it, if she hadn't been so tired. Sisko himself was still stifling his yawns after having just woken up. He was beginning to wonder if he'd be able to get back on a normal day/night schedule once they found Bashir.

O'Brien was the first to offer his report. "The warp engines could take at least two more weeks to fix. We're practically building them from scratch down there." He was obviously frustrated by the whole thing, but Sisko also knew he loved the challenge. "On a brighter note, the shields aren't quite as bad. I've got Stevens heading up the team there. We should be able to get minimal shielding by tomorrow morning. But I do mean minimal. You probably couldn't bounce a satellite off 'em. But as we keep getting the power relays repaired, the shield strength will improve. We still won't get full strength, but we'll have enough to get us around the sun, provided we only make one trip."

Sisko nodded. He'd seen the reports at the start of all this. The depleted Engineering crew had been doing a remarkable job repairing the ship. In three weeks, they had all but two of the main systems in at least working order, some better than others. But getting the ship back into shape to take them home wasn't the chief's only job. "What about the sensors, Chief?"

O'Brien shook his head. "It's a very small piece of equipment," he explained, speaking about Bashir's comm badge. "It would be difficult to scan for even if we had all our sensors. I'll keep a team working on it, but really, sir, I can only spare a few people."

He started to go on making excuses, but Sisko held up a hand to stop him. He understood. It was like triage. You can't just put your resources on the ones that hurt the worst. You also have to think about who will benefit from your administrations. O'Brien wanted to find Bashir as much as the rest of them. They'd developed a close friendship over the years. Sisko was still surprised by it sometimes when he remembered how O'Brien had hated the doctor when he first arrived on the station.

Commander Worf had little new to report. The ship had been searched from one end to the other. Every deck, Jefferies tube, conduit and panel had been scanned. And evidence of the changeling's sabotage had been found in nearly every one of them. But the Security teams had found no new evidence of changeling infiltration, which seemed to confirm Sisko's theory that the changeling had been destroyed in the shuttle explosions or had transported off the ship just before.

"Good," Sisko decided. "Now draw up a new roster. Post the Security personnel where they can be most helpful. If they have any engineering experience, assign them to Chief O'Brien."

"Aye, sir," Worf grumbled in reply. Sisko wondered if it was just his usual grumble or if he didn't like the idea of reassigning Security.

Dax didn't have much to report. She hadn't been on the bridge in over four hours and the course had changed since then. So Sisko moved on to Kira. He knew the scanning wasn't going well, so he started with the timeline instead. "Ensign Thomas said there's no significant changes in the timeline," Kira reported.

"No significant changes," Sisko repeated.

"They would have to be significant or she wouldn't notice them," Kira clarified. Sisko was a little disappointed. If there had been a change, they would know where to look for either Bashir or the changeling. They might even get lucky and find both.

"I'm running out of ideas," Kira declared. She wasn't even trying to hide her frustration anymore. "We've scanned every inch of that planet. If he's down there, his badge simply isn't functioning. We can scan that planet until we drain all the power, but it still won't turn anything up if the badge isn't putting out a signal."

"Well," Sisko began patiently, "we've got nothing better to do at the moment." Still, he had to consider her point. They couldn't simply stop scanning. They were going to be orbiting the planet anyway, since they couldn't go home yet. But, as she had said, it was apparent that the badge was not working. "Maybe we can narrow down the search."

Dax spoke up finally. "We've tried that already using the fragments from the transporter logs."

Sisko nodded and held a hand up. "I know, and we didn't find anything. But that's not what I'm talking about. Up to now, we've been scanning everywhere, no matter how inhospitable or uninhabited. And it was the right thing to do. We wouldn't have found our people if we hadn't." He got up and paced a few steps. He felt guilty for what he was about to say, like he was giving up, at least partially. But he knew it was now also the right thing to do. There was no point wasting their resources on hopeless causes. "But it's been eighteen days now. Bashir's comm badge is malfunctioning. I think that's obvious. If we're going to get a signal from it, it will have to be fixed. If, however, he's been in," he threw up his hands as he gave them an example, "Antarctica for seventeen days, there's no way he's going to fix it." He lowered his voice. "If he's there, he's dead. We should concentrate on areas where he'd have a chance, at least for now."

No one said anything for a few minutes. Kira nodded silently and left her gaze on the tabletop in front of her.

It was Dax who broke the silence. "What happens when we get the warp engines fixed, Benjamin, if we still haven't found him?"

Sisko looked her in the eye. He didn't want to make that decision yet. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Then we call another staff meeting."

* * *

When she came for him again, Bashir was worried that she'd put him in new barracks as she had before. He'd be sleeping on the floor again with no one to speak his language. On the other hand, it might also have meant a new work kommando, and that at least had a chance of being better than the one he was in. Not much of a chance though. He was hoping she wouldn't be cruel enough to put him in with the _Sonderkommando_. Szymon, who had opened up a little since the stitching, had told him about that. It was supposed to be kept quiet, but everyone who had been in the camp for even a few weeks learned about the _Sonderkommando_. They were the ones who dealt with the dead. They loaded and unloaded the gas chambers and then burned the bodies, but only after searching them for gold. The _Sonderkommando_ was itself gassed every few months.

As he stepped out the door behind her, he heard the _Blockälteste_ call _Blocksperre._ There was going to be another selection. "It's impossible to find some privacy here, you know," Whaley's voice remarked from the man's body in front of him. "I'd take you back to my barracks, but that might cause questions."

Bashir didn't say anything as he hobbled along after her, but he couldn't help thinking something sarcastic. She was worried about privacy? He had to sleep on a wooden plank with five other men. She had chosen this place, not him.

She did manage to find something though, one of the warehouses he had glimpsed when going for the soup. No one was working there yet because it was still too early. The sky was still dark and everyone was probably getting ready for roll call. She led him into the warehouse and instantly changed her form to match her voice. Bashir stood in the doorway, partly out of fear of punishment should he move in a way she didn't like, and partly from shock. He'd seen what filled the warehouse before, on the trip here with his father, but it had been behind glass then, a museum exhibit. Now it was out in the open, fresh and all the more horrible. Hair. Piled as high as the ceiling, it stretched from one wall to the other. Blond, red, brown, grey, every shade and color imaginable. He saw braids in it and ribbons here and there. Children's hair.

"At least they're resourceful," the changeling quipped, picking a stack of bundles to sit on. "They could have burned this with the bodies, but they're sending it back to Germany. What is that saying you have? 'Waste not, want not?' Please, have a seat."

Bashir couldn't speak. He just stared at her, shaking his head in tiny movements. He couldn't sit. The bundles on which she was perched so nonchalantly atop were full of hair. The hair of murdered women and children and inmates in the camp. He couldn't walk on it. He couldn't sit on it.

"Fine, have it your way," she dismissed. "I just thought you might be tired. You could consider this your day off." She leaned back, looking very much like a human being. "Within reason, of course."

"There's no reason here," Bashir whispered.

"Depends on how you look at it." The changeling sat back up, and Bashir feared she would hit him again. But she didn't. She seemed genuinely interested in conversing on the matter. "Before we came here, I really didn't know what a Jew was. Oh, I'd learned about it. We all had. This is where the crew would have ended up after all, except for the non-humans. We would have had to dispose of them ourselves. Earth isn't ready for extraterrestrials just yet. But I really didn't see any difference between the lot of you humans."

Bashir tried to ignore her as she rattled on about National Socialist ideology and racism, but something had caught his attention. What had she said about the crew? He had noticed his hearing was beginning to deteriorate just a little. But it was quiet in the warehouse with the exception of her voice. He had heard her, but almost lost that sentence in the rest of her lecture. The whole crew would have come here.

"But I realize now that that might not have been a good method," she continued. "After all, there's some who could be considered of Aryan stock aboard. And some of you might have simply survived somehow. We couldn't have you finding a way to leave a message for the future."

He was paying attention now, ignoring instead the fatigue in his legs. He would have been standing in roll call anyway. She was talking about the crew of the _Defiant_, about what she had planned for them. And apparently the plan had fallen through. Why else would she have been talking in should-haves and couldn't-haves? He realized now that he really hadn't thought about that before, that she could have transported more than himself to this hell, that the whole crew had been in danger. But apparently it hadn't turned out that way. Maybe she _had_ lied about Captain Sisko. Maybe he _was_ the only one.

And she was right. It wouldn't have worked to send the whole crew here. Some would probably have been shot on site. Others would have been singled out as political prisoners and treated better. Besides, they'd all just arouse suspicion, and what both he and the changeling needed was to blend in. "Too many foreigners," he supplied. He wanted her to keep talking about it so that, perhaps, he could learn what the whole plan had been. What were they going to do with the _Defiant_ once the crew was disposed of?

"You're right, of course," she sighed. "Someone would get suspicious." She smiled at him then, a cold smile that tried to appear genuine--or maybe it was the other way around. "But you? You fit right in, don't you? Are you sure you're not really Jewish?"

"Judaism is a religion, not a race," Bashir said. He faced away from her, but where he could still see her from the corner of his eye.

"Perhaps, but does that really matter?" she asked, standing up. "These uniforms are so ill-fitting when I'm in this form." She morphed herself then, pulling in her arms and legs until the uniform she'd been wearing slipped down around her feet. In its place she wore the simple flesh-toned dress that had become characteristic of her people, at least when they interacted with solids. "I mean," she continued with the conversation, "reality is only what you make of it. Judaism may be a religion, but here, it's treated as race. And that's what you have to live and die with. Religion becomes irrelevant."

Bashir didn't know if he agreed or not. Was it irrelevant? Perhaps in the context she was speaking of. But, though he'd grown up believing religion to be something to be respected in other cultures, but otherwise rejected, it somehow felt worse to look at all that hair and think the people who had lost it were killed for no reason at all--or that the God they believed in wasn't there for them when they died. But then, his rational side would ask why their God didn't stop them from dying. It was a complex issue, one he was too tired and too hungry to contemplate now.

"Sometimes I come here," the changeling said, her tone of voice much different, more reflective, than before, "or to one of the other warehouses when no one is around, usually when they're eating lunch. It's difficult to keep this shape constantly--especially that man--and to wear those clothes. It's so limiting. How can you stand being trapped in the same form all the time?"

Bashir didn't expect that she was actually looking for an answer, but when he looked over at her, she was waiting for him to speak. She even looked genuinely interested in his answer. But what kind of answer could he give? It was a very odd question to ask someone who'd never changed his form. "It has its benefits," he said, keeping it vague.

"Do you suppose Odo thought so?" she asked. "We changed him. It was meant as a punishment."

Bashir wasn't sure he should answer that one. It might compromise the constable in some way. But she seemed determined to wait until he responded. So, still trying to be vague and noncommittal, he said simply, "He got used to it."

"But he was happy to change again," she pointed out. "Soared like a hawk across the Promenade, isn't that right?" As she spoke, she twirled around once in a graceful arch. "Oh, that's right, you weren't really there at the time."

"No," Bashir replied, "I wasn't."

"It's a shame." She had stopped her little dance. Now her eyes fell to the floor toward her bare feet. Little wisps of loose hair lay about them. She didn't seem to notice. "I knew him. And he knew you so well." She looked up. Her eyes showed the excitement he heard in her voice. "He was just as good a doctor. You should have seen him work. No one even noticed he wasn't you. He knew he was going to die, but he went anyway."

It was disconcerting to hear her speak of the changeling that had impersonated him like that. He had found it very disturbing to learn all the changeling had done while he was in the Jem'Hadar prison. Once he had found out, he made every patient the man had seen come in again for a full physical. Captain Sisko had patiently spent the better part of a day being tested and retested after Bashir had learned of the surgery the changeling had performed. And yet, he'd found nothing wrong with any of them. That changeling had been as good a doctor, just as this changeling had said.

"But he died," her tone changed to something harder, more angry, "before he could complete his mission. Does that sound familiar?"

Bashir caught the warning in her tone and kept his mouth shut.

"It was your fault. You escaped and warned the station." She quieted down, but the coldness in her eyes didn't leave. "But that was only one of my people. Do you know how many of us were on that ship? Forty-six. And they died because of me and because of you." When he didn't respond, she continued. She sounded remorseful. "I failed them. I failed because of you and your curiosity. If you'd just have left the blood samples alone, this could have been avoided, not for you, but for them. But now they're dead. And I'm alone here with only _you_ for company."

He thought about the number. _Forty-six changelings_. Forty-seven, if he counted her. The exact number of crew on the _Defiant_. She was silent after that, for nearly fifteen minutes. Bashir didn't offer to break the silence. Nor did he sit, though his legs were tired. He didn't move from his spot near the door. Every time she moved or took a step, he felt it a desecration to the people who had lost the hair that filled the room. She didn't seem to mind.

Then suddenly she returned to the empty uniform on the floor. "I have to go." She slipped one foot and then the other into the neck of the uniform jacket. "Stay away from the SS, if you want to live. And be sure not to miss the evening roll call." With that, she disappeared, melting down into the uniform. The uniform then began to grow, rising from the floor as she filled out its spaces. Her hands poked out of the sleeves and finally her head, or rather Heiler's head, emerged from the collar. She had to pick up the hat. "You shouldn't stay here," Whaley's voice spoke. "There's a transport of Gypsies--whatever they are--coming in today. They'll be bringing their hair in here."

Bashir looked at her. "Wh--," he started to say. But he stopped himself, remembering her reaction to his questions. "I don't know where to go." Freedom here could be as dangerous as slavery. He didn't know the place. He didn't know what was allowed and what wasn't. And how was he to avoid the SS? It seemed strange, but he had to admit that he was only safe when he was with her.

"Go back to your barracks. It's empty now," Heiler answered, though he carried no accent. "I don't care. I told you this was your day off."

And then he was gone, and Bashir was left standing alone in the warehouse. He stood there for a few moments, trying to decide what to do. He couldn't stay, as she had said. If someone saw him, there would be questions. Finally he turned and opened the door a crack. He couldn't see anyone near, so he stepped out. The sun was just beginning to brighten the sky, and the wind was picking up. He closed the door behind him and hurried to leave the area, still not sure just where he would go.

* * *

Captain Sisko looked at the PADD Worf had given him before leaving the bridge. Worf had given no explanation of the report, and now Sisko could understand why. It was something better not discussed, at least not yet. He had a decision to make first. It read at first, like an ordinary report. Worf had concluded that the changeling, as believed, was no longer on the ship, but also that it was likely the changeling committed suicide in the shuttle craft when it exploded. Some black, sooty residue had been found near the remains of the transporter controls, and there had been no evidence of any timeline changes to show interference by the changeling on the planet's surface. There was a high possibility that the changeling threat was gone.

But added to the Security report was something else, something Sisko wouldn't have expected of Worf. It was a report on the morale of the crew, something Worf too often seemed insensitive to. But as he read on, he realized it was something hard to miss--unless you were the captain of the ship. The crew was unhappy, and Sisko could understand that. They were tired, and felt there was no longer any danger. They wanted to go home. Bashir had been gone now for nearly four weeks without a trace. It was time now to admit that he was dead and concentrate on getting the ship back to its own century.

Sisko could not blame them for grumbling. The sixteen hour shifts they were working were grueling. He could do something about that. But he wasn't ready to give up on the doctor. They were right. Three and a half weeks was a long time. He had moments of doubt himself when he knew Bashir was dead and they were wasting time and energy looking for him. But just when he was about to make that decision, the doubt slipped and just enough hope stepped in. And a small helping of guilt, too. Bashir had been gone for a month before, kidnapped by the Jem'Hadar and none of his crew had even noticed. And he'd survived it, escaped with Garak and Worf and a few others in tow. Perhaps he was still surviving now, wherever he was.

Bashir had given a report, but otherwise he talked very little about his time in the internment camp. He'd asked about everything he'd missed while he was away and ordered most of the station's residents to come in for full physicals, but otherwise he'd tried to go on as if it had never happened. But Sisko had noticed a change in him. He was much more serious than he had been before, especially when it came to the Dominion. And he was afraid. He hid it well, actually. But Sisko could sense it. He smiled less often and always seemed to want more reinforcements from Starfleet. Sisko remembered how Dax had teased him just after they had abandoned the station and were rendezvousing with the Federation-Klingon task force, asking him if there were enough ships for him now while the impressive fleet hung before them on the viewscreen. He had joked back to her, but Sisko could tell that he was relieved.

No, Sisko was not ready to leave without him. But he also knew that he couldn't stay forever. Bashir was only one man. Sisko had twenty-eight other crewmembers to think of. He would have to make a decision eventually.

"Dax," he asked, clearing the PADD and setting it aside, "what is the status on our ability to get back to our time."

Dax checked her instruments and took a moment to consult with the officer at the Engineering station. Then she swivelled her chair around to face him. "Still a ways to go, Benjamin. Warp engines are still offline, and we'll need stronger shields if we don't want to burn up completely."

Sisko sighed with relief, earning a confused look from Dax. "Thank you, Old Man." He pressed a few keys on the console beside his seat and spoke, knowing that the comm system would relay his voice through the entire ship. "All hands, effective at OOOO hours, all shifts will be reduced by four hours. Off time will be staggered within the normal sixteen hour shifts. Major Kira will work out the rotations. Check the new roster in the morning." He paused a moment before changing the subject. He had to approach the next subject carefully. He didn't want the crew to feel that they had been spied upon. "It has now been over three weeks since our arrival in this time. As yet, we've found no evidence of a change in the timeline nor of any further sabotage by the changeling. It is safe, for the time being then, to assume that the changeling was destroyed in the shuttle explosion. We have also not received any signal from Doctor Bashir. I realize how hard the last few weeks have been, and I appreciate the effort and loyalty this crew has shown. I know you want to go home. I do, too. However, it will still be some time before the ship is capable of getting us there. We must continue to monitor the planet's surface for either changeling activity or our missing crewman until that time. When that time comes, if no evidence of either has been found, I will reevaluate my decision. In the meantime, we should all assume that Bashir is alive and give as much effort to finding him as we did for the others. Sisko out."

* * *

Max had noticed the _Blockälteste_'s angry looks for the last few days. He had not tried to hide them. Each day he grew more brutal, always singling Max out for the slightest imagined infraction. His bunk was not clean enough. His clothes were too dirty. He took too long to rise from the ground during drills. None of which could be helped. But Max had also noticed that Vláďa was missing more and more, even from the drilling. Max generally only saw him at roll calls now. Though he seemed relatively well fed, he had a hollow look to him. He smiled whenever he saw Max and always had an extra crust of bread to give him.

Max had noticed, too, when the _Blockälteste_ had approached the SS, pointing in his direction. The SS had then instantly called him by number after roll call, assigning him to one of the work kommandos. He hadn't even had time to say goodbye to Vláďa or to tell him where he was going. He didn't like where he ended up. A new transport arrived that morning carrying Gypsies. Max, in his new kommando, was assigned to unload their baggage from the train. He watched as the Gypsies were unloaded. They were scared and didn't know what to expect from the camp. They resisted the order to leave their possessions behind. It was much like the time when Max had arrived with Sophie and Hana: Dogs barking, people yelling, pushing, hitting, and the ever-present SS.

It was the second such transport and unlike the transports of Jews, these Gypsies didn't have to go through a selection there at the platform. They had a whole camp to themselves where they could live with their families. It was still crowded for them and they, too, had little to eat, but at least their children were not killed. At first, he felt pity for them. But as he saw child after child, he couldn't help but think of his own, precious daughter, slaughtered by the Germans. And he didn't understand why the Gypsy children were saved. He was jealous, and though he hated himself for wishing death on children, even Gypsy children, he felt it nonetheless.

He was glad then when the train was empty and he didn't have to see their little faces anymore. The rest of the long day was spent sorting through the belongings they left behind and transporting them to Kanada. The large area full of warehouses had been nicknamed Kanada because of the riches contained there. Gold, jewels, and money, but also clothes, shoes, eating utensils, and photographs were stored there before being sent back to Germany. He was told that there was also a warehouse for hair which was used to stuff mattresses for the Germans or to make socks for U-Boat crews.

He had hoped that he would return to his barracks after the evening roll call, so that he might see Vláďa and explain to him what had happened, but he was taken instead to a new Block in a different area of the camp. It was a much more crowded barracks with several hundred more people than the one in quarantine. Max was one of several new arrivals. The _Blockälteste_ here took little notice of them and their fellow prisoners did not welcome them either. In fact, it had been difficult to get their supper rations. The older residents pushed to get the best place in line. Max, still exhausted from the work and the roll call, and unaccustomed to this new barracks, ended up near the very end of the line and without any supper. He had a few bread crusts, though, still in his pockets so he began to try and find a place to sleep. The _Blockälteste_ had not assigned any, so he wandered down the barracks, trying to see if he knew anyone or if one of the bunks had an empty space. He reached the end of the barracks without finding anything, noting that some men were forced to sleep on the floor.

He didn't want to sleep on the floor so he kept walking up the other side of the building. The room was full of people, and, though they were exhausted, they used their last few minutes before curfew to speak among themselves, either to tell each other about the day, or talk about life before the war, or to yell at their bunkmates to move over and make more room. But, just as he was about half way back to the door, Max noticed another sound.

"_I am_," someone was saying. "_You are. He is. She is. We are_." It was English. And it was coming from somewhere above him.

Ignoring all the curses he received, Max climbed up the bunk. He had thought it impossible that the doctor could live. In fact, if it hadn't been for Vláďa's near obsession with the man, Max might have forgotten about him altogether. But as his head poked over the last bunk, Max saw him. He was sitting in his usual position, his right shoulder to the wall. Another man sat beside him. It was that man who had been speaking. He continued, conjugating verbs from the sound of it. "_They are_."

"_Very good_," Bashir told him. And then he noticed Max's face there at the end of the bunk. "Max?" he asked.

The other man stopped his recitation and looked to see who the Englishman was referring to. There were two other men on the bunk as well, and they instantly began to complain, telling Max that there was no room for him. Bashir ignored them, speaking instead to his pupil. "_Il est un ami._ _Il s'appelle Max Zeidl. Il parle allemand._" __

So the man is French, Max thought. The Frenchman yelled something to the other two, something about the selection a few days ago. Then he turned to Max, motioning him up the rest of the way. "_Ich heie Henri Bresalier._" He spoke German well, though with a definite accent. "Come up. You can sleep here. Just ignore the others. You speak English, too?"

"No," Max told him. "We were in quarantine together." He climbed the rest of the way up to the bunk. The other two tried to push him back, but Henri stopped them. Bashir, he noticed, didn't move, though he followed everything with his eyes.

"_Demandes-lui, où est Vláďa,_" Bashir said, touching Henri's sleeve.

Henri nodded and translated the request into German. "He wants to know where Vláďa is."

Max didn't quite know what to answer. Should he tell Bashir, through this Frenchman, all he suspected? "He is still in quarantine."

Henri translated this back to French. "_Comment va-t'il?_" Bashir asked.

"_Qui? Max ou Vláďa?_" Henri shook his head. He apparently wasn't used to being an interpreter, switching back and forth between two languages. Max was used to it. He had used both Czech and German every day with his customers.

Bashir shrugged, or at least it looked like a shrug. It was hard to tell since he didn't move one shoulder and the other was pinned to the wall. "_Tous les deux_," he said.

Henri sighed and turned back to Max. "Are you well? And this Vláďa?"

Max nearly laughed. "Well? Here? As much as I can be." His smile faded. "Vláďa is. . . ." He still didn't know what to say. He wasn't even exactly sure what was going on with Vláďa. It was only a suspicion. "He eats well enough," he said finally.

Bashir caught his hesitation even as he waited for the translation, but he didn't have time to ask anymore questions. The _Blockälteste_ of this barracks yelled that it was curfew. There was a scramble then as everyone tried to find enough room to lie down. It had been a long day, for all of them, and it only promised to be longer tomorrow. So Max tucked his bowl, wrapped with his shoes and coat, closer beside him and tried to ignore the cold, the hunger, and the elbows and knees that jabbed at him as he slept.

* * *

Dax was appreciative of the new shift rotation, though she was even more tired now as she took her place at the helm than she had been the last three weeks. The new shift called for eight hours on duty, followed by four off, then four on and finally eight off. Half the crew's shifts were just the opposite, beginning with four on, four off, then eight on and finally the usual eight off. Dax now had some free time to spend with Worf, who's short break coincided now with the final four hours before her eight hour shift. It meant she slept less at this time, but she compensated by taking a nap at midnight when her short break began.

The whole crew seemed to appreciate it, too. Everyone seemed a little more relaxed, and the grumbling she'd heard before had become less noticeable. People were still anxious to go home, but their moods were lighter now that they had some time to relax or catch up on their sleep.

Dax checked the _Defiant_'s position and sipped her raktajino. They were just beginning to scan North America. It wouldn't take as long to cover all the area this time, since they could exclude the uninhabitable regions. But Dax didn't plan on taking it too fast either. She would still cover every inch of habitable land down there. By now she had refamiliarized herself well with Earth's geography. She remembered her flight training at the Academy, piloting a shuttle over the Rockies, which showed themselves to be a few inches taller in this time before the various large-scale wars dulled them down a bit. It would take a good part of her shift to finish the scan of this continent and Dax expected they'd cross the Atlantic while she was sleeping. She'd be back for Europe.

Despite the nostalgia she felt noting the changes in Earth's geology, she still found herself yawning. Eight hours was hard, not as hard as sixteen, but still difficult when the task was unchanging. She and Kira chatted a little bit after the captain left for his break and Worf went off duty, but everyday there was less and less to talk about. Besides, there were some things that they didn't want to share with the whole bridge.

Things like Julian. They would save that for dinner when Kira's shift ended. Dax thought about the time she and Kira had shared a table in Quark's drinking to Julian and O'Brien's memories when they thought they were dead before. It was a lot like then, except it was everyday and Kira had more nice things to say about Julian now. Dax still felt guilty that she'd never read the medical school diaries Julian had given her. She wondered now, though, if they would help her to understand him better. He'd changed so much since then. Kira had expressed an interest in reading them herself.

Dax was glad that Kira had learned to appreciate and even like Julian. But she seemed to be taking his loss much better than Dax. At first, Jadzia had chalked it up to her experiences during the Occupation. She'd lost so many people she cared about. But Dax had lost people too, probably more. She had seven lifetimes of losing people, some who had still been alive, children she'd had to leave behind as her symbiont changed hosts, or even a widow, like Nalani Kahn. She had experienced loss. It never seemed to get easier for her, and she nearly cried herself to sleep every night after dinner remembering their faces and knowing that she would have to add Julian to the list.

* * *

Sisko sighed and surveyed the room. Dax sat with her back to him as she returned to duty at the helm from her break. She had been very quiet lately, sticking only to her duties despite the monotony of flying the _Defiant_ in seemingly endless orbits around the Earth. The computer, now that they had navigation up and running, really did most of the work. At least she looked a little more rested now. Worf was due on the bridge as well, but had yet to arrive. Ensign Dimitriov pored over the engineering console. It wasn't her specialty--engineers were still spread pretty thin--but she didn't complain as she tried to boost the quality of the sensor readings. She'd been doing just that for her full eight-hour shift already. Lieutenant Jordan was hunched over another console, the one Kira had left only a few hours ago. His head rested on his turned up palm. He hadn't moved in over a half an hour.

Sisko was about to say something to him when the young man bolted upright. "I've got it!" he exclaimed, swiveling around in his chair.

Everyone on the bridge heard him and turned. Sisko nearly jumped right out of his chair. Dax, too, spun hers around to face him. Both she and the captain met Jordan at his console. "It's very weak," he warned, and he was right. There was barely a signal at all. But it _was_ there.

"Helm," Sisko said, turning to Dax, who raced back to her seat, anticipating his next command, "hold position and establish a geosynchronous orbit." The ship slowed and the image on the viewscreen stopped its slow crawl across the display. Europe. The signal had come from the heart of Europe, an area they'd scanned at least four times already.

Sisko straightened his uniform and tapped his comm badge. "O'Brien to the bridge." He waited for confirmation and then called for the major and Ensign Thomas to meet him in the mess hall in ten minutes. It took less than two minutes before the chief stepped out of the turbolift.

Sisko, still standing over Jordan's station, called him over. "We're getting a signal. See if you can't amplify it somehow. We have to be sure it's one of ours and not some errant radio signal from the planet." He lowered his voice so the whole bridge wouldn't hear. "And I want to know if there are any lifesigns. Dax and I will be in the mess hall if you get any more information." He tapped the lieutenant on the shoulder. "You have the bridge, Lieutenant."

The young man looked up at him with wide eyes. Then they narrowed as he realized there really wouldn't be that much to do. The ship wasn't going anywhere. O'Brien replaced him at his console, and Jordan walked confidently to the command chair. Sisko turned to Dax, waiting expectantly at the helm. "You coming, Old Man?"

Major Kira and Ensign Thomas were already waiting inside when the captain and Dax arrived at the mess hall. They had to step aside for a few crewmen carrying their trays of food. Though they looked tired, they didn't look too upset at having to leave the mess hall in the middle of their meal. Major Kira on the other hand looked not a little perturbed at having been dragged out of bed. But Sisko knew that would fade as soon as she knew the reason for the meeting.

"We picked up a signal," he said as soon as the last crewmember left and the door closed. At once, Kira's expression changed, and she was completely alert. Dax was already at the console at the front of the room, calling up the sensor map on the viewscreen there. Thanks to Thomas's research, the sensor maps now reflected the political boundaries of the era.

Thomas, who had been sitting at one of the tables with Kira, stood immediately and walked closer to the viewscreen as if she didn't believe what was displayed there. One small dot of light was centered on the map. It wavered weakly and then flared a little brighter. "Germany?" she asked, obviously perplexed. She turned. "It's been awhile since my last physical, but isn't the doctor, " she paused as she looked for the right word, "dark?"

Sisko felt the pressure in his stomach starting up again. He lowered himself into the chair nearest him. The door opened before he could say anything else. O'Brien entered. Letting the ensign wait for a moment, Sisko turned to the engineer. "Is it ours?"

"Yes, sir," O'Brien responded. He didn't look all that excited though. "We were able to clean it up a bit. It's Julian's signal, alright."

After the ensign's remark about Bashir's dark complexion, Sisko wasn't as happy to hear that either. "Life signs?" he asked.

O'Brien shook his head. "But that doesn't mean anything necessarily. We aren't getting any life signs at all anywhere near it. Nothing organic even, except wood."

Sisko looked at him quizzically. "Wood?"

O'Brien nodded. "And marble, though that's not organic. But there's a lot of it. Various metals and plastics, too."

"Sounds like a laboratory," Thomas spoke up, drawing all attention back to her. "Sir, I doubt very much that the doctor is in Germany."

Sisko agreed. "But his communicator is."

Kira stood up impatiently. "Will someone please tell me what is going on? If he's not in Germany--wherever that is--where is he?" She turned to Thomas, "Isn't Germany one of the warring nations?"

Thomas nodded her reply. "It was more than that."

Sisko finished for her. He knew what she was getting at. "The Holocaust."

* * *

Captain Sisko had given her exactly ten minutes to prepare a succinct and comprehensive explanation of just what the Holocaust was and what they were up against in trying to find the missing doctor. Personally, Ensign Thomas didn't think the odds were good. Actually, she knew they were very bad. But she wasn't ready yet to give up hope, not when it came to the Holocaust. She had a chance to save one of its victims, and she was going to do anything in her power to do so.

She had first heard about the Holocaust when she was fourteen. She had read a book: _Elli: Coming of Age in the Holocaust_ by Livia E. Bitton Jackson. Livia, or Elli as she was called at the time, was fourteen when she was sent to Auschwitz. Something must have connected between them, because Mylea was drawn to the story, and any other story she could find on the subject, from then on. She had to know more. She'd read countless accounts by survivors and visited a few of the major camps that were still standing as memorials to the victims. She sometimes wondered why she was so fascinated with such a grisly topic, whether she was just morbid or had some sick interest in gore and death. But she didn't feel it was like that. She felt it was more an attempt to know the victims, the survivors, and even the perpetrators. She couldn't seem to wrap her mind around the enormity of the crime, of the hurt, the loss, the fear, or the hatred and cruelty. How could one person look at another person, so similar to himself, and wish him pain and torment and death? It was something she would never really understand.

As she thought about what to say, she decided that it might not be too hard to explain it to the Bajoran major. The Cardassian Occupation of Bajor had been similar in many ways--though significantly different in others--to what the Nazis had done during World War II. They had used terror for control and had even set up labor camps where people were starved, tortured, and worked to death. Major Kira had even helped to liberate one of the worst of them: Gallitep.

The ten minutes passed quickly, and the door to the mess hall opened again. The entire senior staff entered, including the captain, who was now off duty. The sensor readings from the bridge were channeled to the display terminal behind her. O'Brien had also managed to get some of the general computer systems running, like the library. Everyone was going to need it to brush up on their history.

She felt like a school teacher when everyone sat at the tables, leaving her alone at the front of the room. All of a sudden, ten minutes seemed like not nearly enough time to prepare. But the captain was waiting for her to start.

"The Holocaust," she began carefully, "is a pretty complex topic. I can't possibly tell you everything, but I'll try to hit on the main points. We've already talked about the war, about the National Socialists, so I won't begin there. We didn't talk really about their ideology per se, so that's probably a good place to start. The Nazis. . . ." She paused. It wasn't as easy to start there as it seemed. She tried again. "The Nazis' ideology was a racial one. Anti-Semitism, or hatred of Jews, was the backbone of it, but it was more complex than that. There was a whole hierarchy of races, ranging from pure Aryan--which could be characterized as blue-eyed, blond, and of Germanic stock--to Slavs, Gypsies, and Jews. All of these peoples, and even political opponents and social outcasts, were persecuted to some degree by the Nazis. But several of the groups, especially the Jews, were slotted for extermination."

Lieutenant Commander Dax motioned with her hand to interrupt. "But isn't Judaism a religion? It's not a race."

Thomas shook her head. "You're thinking about it like a rational person, Commander. You have to think like a Nazi. They didn't care about your religion. They considered it race, something hereditary that you couldn't change just by converting your beliefs."

"When you say 'extermination,'" Kira broke in, "you mean 'genocide?'"

Thomas nodded. "One of Hitler's main goals was to completely destroy the Jewish population of Europe. It even ranked higher than the war effort toward the end. And he went a long way toward succeeding, too. But that's getting ahead of ourselves." She walked to the computer console and pulled up a map of Europe from 1933. Germany was still well within her boarders. "The Nazis persecuted many groups, as I said: Communists, Gypsies, Democrats, Jehovah's Witnesses, homosexuals, the mentally and physically disabled, and so on. But their main concern, and ours quite frankly, was the Jews."

"Julian's not Jewish," O'Brien pointed out, but he did look worried.

"You're being rational, too, Chief," Thomas told him. Postponing the map, she addressed the computer, "Computer, show us an image of Doctor Julian Bashir." The computer hesitated for about five seconds and then put the image up on the viewscreen. "The Nazis were looking at this _racially_. They had a whole pseudo-science of race planned out. They would send scientists out to classify people by standards of racial purity. They'd check your hair color--how close you are to blond--your eye color, the shape of your head, the prominence of the nose, the color of the skin. If you look at him like that," she said, pointing to the image on the viewscreen, "using their standards. . . ."

Captain Sisko cut her off, his face grimly set. He looked her right in the eye when he spoke, and she knew he understood. "He's a Jew."

Glad she didn't have to pursue the issue, Thomas once again set the display to the map. "At first, the Nazis only had power within Germany," as she spoke, she highlighted the area on the map. "They started small, relieving some Jews of their jobs. And then all Jews of their civil rights. They were no longer allowed to shop in non-Jewish shops. Jewish children couldn't go to public schools. Jews couldn't go to certain parks or sit on certain benches. Then nearly all occupations were closed to them, and they lost their citizenship. They were only allowed to come out of their houses for a short time each day to shop for food and necessities. And at anytime they were vulnerable to harassment, humiliation, and violence."

She changed the map, letting the highlighted area flow out from Germany into Austria. "As they gained power over other nations," then highlighted the outer rim of Czechoslovakia, the Sudetenland, and then the rest of the country, "they took their racial policies with them." The highlighted area moved to fill in most of Poland as well. "And then they went farther. Jews lost their homes and were forced to move into ghettos." The map widened to include Western Europe and the highlight of Germany engulfed more lands there, the Netherlands, Belgium, Norway, France. In addition, little pinpoints of light dotted the whole scene showing the many hundreds of ghettos. "The ghetto in Warsaw was the biggest, if I remember correctly. At its highest point, it had a population of over four hundred thousand. Several families lived together in each room. It was overcrowded. The sanitation was bad, and there was never enough food. Rations were ranked hierarchically, too. Germans got more than Czechs and Poles. Jews got less than anyone. Thousands died right in the streets. And there was no law against killing a Jew."

Thomas had been facing them, changing the computer screen using a PADD. But she turned now to let that sink in for a moment. Leaving the ghettos highlighted, she set the computer to locate the camps with red, six-pointed stars. Only this time she used the sensors as far as their range. The library filled in the rest. "Then they even took away the ghetto. Jews were sent in trains meant for carrying cattle to concentration camps, labor camps, or killing centers. In the concentration and labor camps, a prisoner was expected to work, under grueling conditions and for long hours with very little food. And there was always the threat of violence from the guards. Many died of overwork, starvation, violence, or diseases caused by the poor sanitation. But the killing centers, extermination camps, like Bełżec, Treblinka, and Sobibor," she pointed them out as she spoke, "were set up with the sole purpose of killing Jews.

"The Nazis started by simply shooting Jews, either in town or in mass graves which they forced the Jews to dig away from town. But they found it simply too costly in bullets and troop morale, so they tried other methods. Carbon monoxide expulsions from combustion engines were too time-consuming and inefficient. They eventually hit on Zyklon B, a pesticide gas meant to kill rats and vermin. They tested it in Auschwitz in 1941 on 800 prisoners." She pointed to Auschwitz. "They were all dead within twenty minutes. Auschwitz went on to become the largest of the camps, both a concentration camp and a killing center. There were five gas chambers and crematoria for disposing of the corpses and also a slave population that averaged more than a hundred thousand. The total number of dead is still disputed today, but by all accounts at least one million Jews died here. Six million were killed in the Holocaust, along with around five million others."

Thomas stopped to take a breath. It was all coming out in one big rush now. She could feel her heart beating faster, her chest becoming hot with anger. "They even tried to continue the killing as they were losing the war. They forced most of the prisoners on death marches inward toward Germany to other camps, killing anyone who couldn't keep up. Only the total defeat of Germany brought the slaughter to an end, but not until something like two-thirds of Europe's Jews had been killed."

"And you think they have Bashir," Kira asked quietly. Her face was set hard, but her eyes were slightly puffy.

"There's only one way to find out for sure," Thomas ventured, looking to the captain. "Like the Cardassians, the Nazis were meticulous record keepers."

Sisko nodded and stood up. "If they've got the communicator, they probably have the paperwork to tell us where they got it. Do you speak German, Ensign?"

Thomas pulled herself to attention. "Only a little, sir," she replied, having no intention of lying to him, even if it kept her off the away team.

"Find someone who does."

"Sir, the universal translators are still functioning," Worf suggested.

"But you can't use them to read German, Commander," Sisko corrected. "Where _exactly_ is the signal coming from? Can we get a good fix?"

O'Brien stepped to the computer terminal. "If we patch the sensors in with the historical database the ensign's been using. . . ." He let his sentence trail off as he worked. His fingers moved silently over the controls for a few minutes before he proclaimed, "It's in Berlin. Computer, superimpose this signal on a scale map of Berlin, Germany, circa 1943."

"Working," the computer droned. Thomas couldn't help but notice that it sounded tired. They all waited anxiously as the map slowly changed, drawing closer in on Berlin and filling in the many tiny streets one inch at a time.

"Zoom in fifty percent," O'Brien ordered. The maze of tiny lines changed to more orderly patterns of streets and alleys. "Again, fifty percent." Buildings became clear, complete with labels for the more important landmarks. The badge's signal was emanating from Kaiser Wilhelm University.

Sisko turned to Dax. "Lose the spots, Old Man, you're going with her." He waited for Dax to nod before he brought his attention back to Ensign Thomas. "You'll need to dress appropriately. I don't think they'll let you just walk in and rummage through their files. You'll need something with power to back it up."

"Gestapo might do, " Thomas guessed, trying to remember if there were any female Gestapo agents.

"Sir, request permission to join the away team," Worf snapped, standing. Sisko and Thomas turned at the same time to give him an incredulous look.

"No offense, sir," Thomas said, "but you wouldn't last two minutes." To soften what she was saying she swept her hand to encompass everyone in the mess hall. "Even if we discount your forehead and the major's nose, there isn't one of us in this room who would qualify as being of superior racial stock. Chief O'Brien would probably come the closest. Dax, the major, and I might have a chance though."

Kira stood and gave the captain a determined stare. "Then let me go."

"First," Sisko said, raising a finger and turning toward the viewscreen which still showed the city map of Berlin with Bashir's badge marked out in bright yellow, "we don't have a doctor to fix your nose." He turned to face her again. Thomas noted that he looked like the teacher now. "And second, I don't believe the Nazis were into equality of the sexes. We'll need a man on this mission. I would prefer someone from Security, someone who can read German. We can't just let them keep the badge. We've been over this territory before and got nothing from it. They must be tinkering with it. They've got a weak signal, we can't let them get any more."

"We should replace it with something, Captain," Thomas advised. "They'll notice if it's just gone in the morning."

"We can replicate another one," O'Brien suggested, "a fake."

Dax's face began to light up. "It'll have to be just like the one they have, even if they've torn it apart. We'll have to beam it up first and then replicate it."

"Do the same with any records you find," Sisko ordered. "I would think night the best time." He looked to Thomas for confirmation.

She couldn't answer right away. She really didn't know. The building would probably be locked, perhaps even guarded. But there would certainly be less people than in the daytime. She nodded, hoping that it was the right decision.

"Sir," Worf called from the back of the room. He held a PADD in one hand which he seemed to be studying, "Lieutenant Novak is fluent in German, both verbal and written."

"Good," Sisko acknowledged a little more cheerfully. "Sign him up."

Kira's voice was calm when she spoke and all the excitement was gone was her face. "It's gone."

Every head in the room snapped around to see where she was pointing. There on the viewscreen was the map of Berlin just as they had left it, only now the sensor image of the badge's signal was indeed gone. O'Brien rushed over to the console. Everyone waited as he diagnosed the problem. "We haven't lost the signal exactly," he finally said. "We've lost the sensors. Too much power. They weren't up to it. Shorted out. We should be able to fix it, but it's going to take awhile."

"And we can't beam down without the sensors," Dax concluded.

O'Brien shook his head. "Not unless you want to risk beaming into a wall. Besides, we'd need the sensors to beam you back up."

Thomas looked to the captain for his decision. His face was still calm, set in stone. He spoke with a soft voice, but she could hear the disappointment in it. "I guess you'll have more time to prepare your team then, Ensign." Thomas nodded. The captain moved on. "Keep me informed, Chief. I want those sensors repaired before tomorrow night." Then, without another word, he left the mess hall. She noticed he didn't head toward the turbolift that would take him to the bridge.

* * *

Julian flashed Max a look that said good-bye and then headed after Henri and Szymon, glad to be moving his legs, even if it meant more pain in his back. Henri was getting better at translating for them, though Bashir felt a little guilty. It left less time for their lessons, and that had been the deal between them. But he seemed to like Max, who was sometimes able to 'organize' things from the transports he helped to unload. "Organizing," he had learned, was a way of obtaining things. It wasn't stealing, though that happened here quite often with the weakest being the victims. One had to watch one's few belongings at all times. Henri had already lost his tin spoon, the one utensil they were given to eat with. Max, though, had managed to find another one. He also came back with food sometimes. It was dangerous though. If he had been caught with any such items, he could be sent to the punishment kommando or even Block 11.

Bashir now knew that that was where he had been. The "Death Block" it was called. Most who entered it did not return, except perhaps to be killed publicly as a message to the rest of the prisoners. Bashir warned Max, too, not to take anything from the transports, though he couldn't help but hope that he had when he returned for evening roll call. The few morsels he smuggled back to the barracks meant the difference between complete starvation and survival. Even Szymon had become friendly then, when he knew Max would share, though he still rarely spoke to Bashir. He was even more suspicious now, knowing that he had survived Block 11.

As they neared the construction site, Bashir hoped Heiler was having a good day. She seemed to suffer from fluctuations in her mood. Or rather, he suffered from fluctuations in her mood. When she was unhappy or too nostalgic, she made a conscious effort to make his work as hard as possible and then beat him for not doing it well enough. On better days, she nearly ignored him, settling for mere verbal tirades with perhaps only a few blows to punctuate her remarks. More and more she seemed to be taking to the role of SS officer, meting out her invectives to the other prisoners as well.

She hadn't said anything to him yet this morning though. Her attention seemed to be elsewhere. The _kapo_ had noted Bashir's injuries and the extra attention that Heiler gave him. He often sent him to go and fetch the midday soup ration, and he had put him on an easier task. He would still beat him, though, for being slow if the SS were watching. Bashir was now working to cement the ceiling of the undressing chamber. Pouring the cement wasn't easy, but at least he wasn't bent over the whole day. After it was poured, any pockets of air had to be removed. Doing so required little use of his left arm and didn't jar his back. Still he was constantly afraid that Heiler would get angry and push him into the fresh cement. She had come close twice already when she assailed him for moving too slowly. But he'd fallen into the rebar instead, scraping his cheek and his hands.

Henri was nearby, working with Piotr to secure the rebar in place. When they were close enough together, Henri would continue his lesson with Bashir, practicing his English in whispers. The _kapo_ didn't mind as long as they continued working. He even warned them when the SS was coming around.

"Who is Vláďa?" he asked. Bashir wasn't sure why he was asking now. It had been several nights since Max had first spoken of the boy. He hadn't said anything about him since, despite Bashir's questions. Before, Henri had merely translated, showing little interest in the actual conversations he and Max had. "Is he son of Max?"

"Max's son," Bashir corrected. "No, we all met each other in quarantine."

"Each other?" Henri didn't understand the phrase.

"_L'un et l'autre_," Bashir told him, just a little uncertain about the proper grammar in French.

Henri nodded. "Why you think so much on him?"

"I met his cousin on the train from Poland," Bashir said. He paused as he waited for another prisoner to pour more cement down in front of him. "I promised him I would take care of Vláďa. He's just a boy and he's alone."

"Cousin is _cousin_?" Henri asked. Bashir nodded his confirmation as he pressed and folded the wet cement. "Max is thinking bad on this boy."

"Max is _worried_ about Vláďa," Bashir affirmed, stressing the correct word for Henri. "Yes, I know, but he will not say why."

"Worried is _pass compos_?"

Bashir sighed. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong word. It had to be confusing. "Worried" was in the past tense, but "is" is present. It was correct, but it would take some explaining for Henri to understand. But the _kapo_ caught his attention. He had removed his hat to scratch his head. He nodded once to Bashir before replacing it. The SS was coming.

"Tonight!" Bashir whispered, motioning toward the _kapo_ with his head.

Henri caught the warning and bent further to his work, but it was too late. Heiler was upon him, beating him as he screamed. "_Jetzt ist nicht die Zeit zum Unterhalten, du scheiß Jude! Hast du Angst vor der Arbeit? Vielleicht denkst du, du müßtest nicht arbeiten. Faules Schwein!_"

Piotr beside him looked away and worked faster, edging away from the raging SS man and his victim. Bashir stood still. He was shocked, not that Heiler could beat a man, but that he had chosen Henri for it. It was Bashir who had said the last word.

"Are you stupid?" Szymon whispered right beside his ear, and Bashir wondered when he had moved so close. He had been working several meters away. "Work!"

Bashir did as he was told. The changeling craned her head around once to look at him and smiled, even as she continued to beat the Frenchman.

She simply walked away when she was done with him and Henri didn't move. Bashir wanted to run to him and see if he was alive, but the _kapo_ was watching and he shook his head. He went on yelling at some others to work harder, but he kept his eye on the SS. Bashir had to wait until the midday meal before he could see to him. The _kapo_ had chosen two others this time to get the soup, and Bashir was grateful, even if it meant he had to stay and work under Heiler's gaze.

Henri was alive, but he was still unconscious when Bashir reached him. A gash in his head was bleeding profusely. The entire left side of his face was swollen and colored red and black. Several of his ribs were broken, and Bashir thought his right forearm might be, too. He awoke when Bashir moved him--at the _kapo_'s order--to a slightly more sheltered area. He was groggy still and didn't say anything. He just laid still and let Bashir feed him his soup. Most of it dribbled out of his swollen lips, but Bashir didn't mind. He used a small cloth handkerchief that Max had organized and given to him to dab at the gash on Henri's forehead. He packed snow around his injured arm. The SS dog-handler came into view before he could do more, and the _kapo_ called him away.

Piotr and Szymon were waiting for him when he returned. "How often are the selections?" Bashir asked Szymon urgently.

Szymon shook his head and shrugged. He knew that Henri would probably die. "We will take him tonight to the hospital."

Bashir stared at him suspiciously. "I thought the hospital was dangerous."

Szymon nodded. "Is. But the doctors try to help. Maybe they will make him warm."

Bashir understood. They would try to make him comfortable at least. While the hospital had little access to medicines and equipment, they did have more than he had in the barracks. Maybe they could help Henri before the next selection came. It was a gamble, but Henri would die either way. They had to take the chance.

Bashir tried to keep his eye on Henri's form as they worked the rest of the day. The _kapo_ did his part, too, though some of the other prisoners didn't appreciate it. Whenever one of the SS got too close to Henri, he would scream at another prisoner, hitting them with his stick. It worked. The SS looked to see what the commotion was and Henri was forgotten.

As the sky grew darker, it became harder to see him. But then it was also harder to work. The whistle blew and everyone lined up to be counted. The _kapo_ called for two men to carry Henri, and then they started back toward camp. Bashir wanted to be in line near his injured friend, but Szymon caught his arm. "I think sometimes you want death," he sneered, forcing him to stay several rows behind Henri and his bearers. Bashir worried about the jarring cadence of the double-time march and what it was doing to Henri's head wound.

"When do we go to the hospital?" Bashir whispered when the SS weren't looking.

"After _Appell_," Szymon whispered back. __

Appell lasted longer than ever, it seemed, until Bashir could count three stars between the ever present billows of smoke. Two more men from the kommando dropped at roll call and were placed on the ground near Henri. As soon as the signal was given, Szymon and Piotr moved to collect Henri. Bashir followed. Before they moved him, Bashir checked Henri's pulse. It was racing, but his breath was shallow. He was awake, but his eyes wouldn't focus. Bashir nodded and the two Poles lifted him off the ground with some difficulty.

"We must go quickly," Szymon told him.

Bashir nodded. The roll call had cut into their time before curfew. All of them were weak from hunger, and they were giving up their dinner ration to take Henri to the hospital. But Bashir didn't care, or at least he tried to ignore it. His friend and patient was more important. And he felt responsible for his condition. Heiler was his problem. She had probably attacked Henri not because he had been talking, but because he had been talking to Bashir.

When they approached the hospital area, Bashir was amazed by the length of the lines waiting to get inside. For a place with such a reputation for danger and death, the prisoners still wanted in awfully bad. "Why do they come here?" Bashir asked. "Aren't they afraid?"

"They are more tired, more hungry," Szymon told him, setting Henri down on the ground beside them in line. "No working here." Piotr whispered something to him and he nodded. "You go back. Get food. You can give with Piotr. Max, maybe, has something, too."

Bashir looked at Henri, who was unconscious again. His head was still bleeding, though less so because of the cold. He didn't want to leave, partly because of Henri and partly, he had to admit, because of the hospital. He wanted to see what was in there. What could they do? What kind of instruments did they have? The doctors tried to help, Szymon had said. He wondered how much of a difference they were able to make.

But Piotr's eyes pleaded with him. He was hungry. Going without a meal could be deadly. And Bashir was the logical choice. He couldn't carry Henri with only one arm. "Tell me _everything_," Bashir told Szymon. He took one more glance at the line in front of the door and at Henri and headed back to the barracks. He only hoped the trip was worth it. He might arrive too late for any food.

And he did. He made it to the end of the line, but the rations were gone by then. There was nothing else. Max saw him and waved him up on the bunk. His eyes showed his worry and relief that someone had returned. "_Wo ist Henri?_" he asked excitedly, helping to pull Bashir up over the edge of the bunk. "_Und Szymon und Piotr?_"

Bashir didn't know how to tell him. "Heiler beat Henri," he said, and he pounded on his own leg with his fist to show the meaning of his words.

Max's eyes fell to the bunk, but he nodded. "_Ist er tot?_" He ran a finger across his throat to make his point.

Bashir shook his head. "Szymon and Piotr took him to the hospital." Max, of course, didn't understand. Then Bashir remembered that Vláďa had called him a doctor. The word was the same, at least in Czech. He touched the six-pointed star sewn to the chest of his coat. "Jewish doctors."

"Ah," Max said and nodded. He was silent for a moment. And then he seemed to notice something. He grew excited. "_Du hast nicht gegessen?_" he asked. But, now it was Bashir's turn to stare at him without understanding. Max didn't try to explain. He knew the answer to his question. Instead, he unwrapped his coat and removed a small loaf of real bread and his own tiny portion of sausage. He shielded it from the view of others as he held it out to Bashir.

Bashir's mouth began to water just looking at it, but he held up three of his fingers. "Three," he said. "For Szymon and Piotr, too."

Max nodded and broke the bread into three parts, two of which he wrapped up again. Then he did the same with the sausage. It left only a few bites for Bashir, but he was glad for them. He knew the danger Max faced in smuggling it in. And he knew the sacrifice Piotr and Szymon were making to take Henri to the hospital. He wouldn't steal the food from them.

They returned just before the _Blockälteste_ locked the door. Max only had time to hand them their food before the lights were put out and everyone was ordered to sleep. Bashir wanted to ask about Henri, but there was no time. Szymon and the others were exhausted. And so was he. Despite his concern for his friend, he fell asleep quickly and dreamt he was at one of Captain Sisko's dinner parties.


	10. Chapter 10

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Ten**

Thomas tightened the belt of her coat and checked the chronometer. It was nearly time. She was glad that Chief O'Brien had left her some access to the computer's historical database. He had pulled power from nearly every other unessential system to get the sensors working again. He left two terminals open for the database. One for her and Lieutenant Commander Dax, the other for Lieutenant Novak. The costumes were not particularly hard. SS uniforms would have been more complicated, but they had chosen Gestapo. And besides, it was winter. They'd all be wearing coats. Thomas had been more concerned with the hair. She knew what styles were popular with American women at this time, but she wasn't so certain about Germans. The computer helped to fill in this information. Both she and Dax finally decided on severe buns. Gestapo agents probably wouldn't be concerned with fashion.

"You ready?" Dax asked. She checked her comm badge to make sure that it was hidden well but still functional.

"I'm a little tired," Thomas admitted. "My body was getting used to sleeping right now."

"You'll probably wake up when you get down there." Dax stepped forward so that the door opened and then extended a hand to show that Thomas should go first.

"I'll probably wake up ten seconds before the transport," Thomas quipped, stepping out. "It's exciting. This is Nazi Germany, after all. Of course, that also means that it's terrifying."

"We're counting on you to keep us apprised of that side of things." The turbolift doors closed behind them. "Transporter room," Dax told the computer.

"We should be fine in these outfits," Thomas assured her. "We're the secret state police. People denounce other people to us. We're the ones they're afraid of."

"Let's just hope they don't check our badges," Dax smiled, and Thomas couldn't help but notice that it looked out of place on her today. She had always thought of the Trill as serene or fun-loving. But today, she looked as severe as her tightly pulled back hair. She fit the part. Except for that smile.

The turbolift stopped. The transporter room was only a few meters away from the lift but Thomas felt her pulse increase with each step. The captain was waiting for them inside, as was Major Kira though her shift had ended three hours ago. Chief O'Brien himself was handling the transporter. Lieutenant Novak entered last. He was tall and blond and imposing--the picture of the Aryan "master race."

"I've been tinkering with the universal translator," O'Brien said, stepping forward. He held three communicator badges in his hand. "These comm badges don't have one. Thomas told us there were a lot of foreign workers in Germany. You want to sound the part. So you'll have to rely on the lieutenant."

"Good thinking, Chief," Dax said, taking off her old badge and replacing it with the new. Thomas and Novak did the same.

"Make it quick, Old Man," Captain Sisko admonished. "Try to stay out of trouble."

"We'll be fine, Benjamin," Dax said, smiling again. "Who's going to be in a science lab at one in the morning anyway?"

"You would be," Sisko answered dryly. "Just be careful." He faced Novak and Thomas. "Lieutenant, your primary responsibility, once inside, will be to find the records and bring them back to the ship and translate them. Dax will get the badge. Everything must be put back exactly as it is found."

Thomas already knew her duty. She would watch the door to the lab. It seemed anticlimactic for her first mission into Nazi Germany, but she knew it was crucial. Novak was there to read German files. Dax was there to deal with the electronics. Thomas was there to protect them while they did it.

"Good luck," Sisko said finally and he nodded.

The three of them stepped onto the transporter pad. Dax checked to make sure her team was ready. "Energize."

They reappeared in a dark alley just beside the target building. Dax removed a tricorder from her jacket and scanned the area. She nodded, and slipped it back into a pocket. "Let's go," she whispered.

Thomas was amazed. It was different than she had thought it would be. She had thought she'd be overwhelmed by the sense of history here, the different-ness of everything from what she was used to. But all she felt was cold. It felt normal here, like any of the old European universities she had visited before choosing Starfleet Academy. The only difference was the presence of Nazi banners and flags. It looked like a picture from the Holocaust Museum in Washington.

They found a back door to the building, but it was locked. Dax didn't seem worried. She had her tricorder out again, scanning the lock. "This shouldn't be too hard," she said. She opened her coat a little and withdrew a small, slender tool. She bent over to press it into the lock.

"_Was machen Sie da?_" an angry voice asked behind them.

Dax froze for exactly one second. Then she glanced up at Novak and continued her work, using her body to block the intruder's view.

"_Geh nach Hause_," Novak told him in perfect German. He showed the man his Gestapo badge. "_Das hier ist Angelegenheit der Gestapo. Du tust gut daran, dich hier herauszuhalten._"

Thomas caught enough of the German to realize that Novak had subtly threatened the man, using his fear of the Gestapo to turn him away. It worked. The man's angry demeanor melted in an instant. "_Es tut mir leid_," he said, stepping backwards. He kept his face to them, but disappeared quickly around a corner.

The door snapped open, and the away team stepped inside. Thomas gladly closed and locked the door behind her. "That went well," Dax whispered. "You have a lovely accent, Lieutenant. " She checked her tricorder again. Thomas peeked over her shoulder. The comm badge's signal was much stronger here, and the tricorder easily picked it up. "Two floors up."

Dax led the way past what Thomas assumed were offices and classrooms, using the tricorder readings as a guide. There was a light shining through one door. Someone was still at work. Captain Sisko had been right to be cautious. Dax made a motion with her hands to show that the stairs were further down the hall. They would have to be extra quiet as they passed the office and hope its occupant didn't look up.

Dax went first. Her shoes never made a sound. Novak followed, his own boots emitting a muted shuffle, but he was past the door in two steps. Thomas was last, and she listened carefully as she walked. She heard talking in the office, but it was steady and seemed uninterrupted by their passage.

The stairs were just beyond the door, so they still had to climb them quietly. It was an old building, and no matter how silent the three of them tried to be, the creaky steps seemed determined to give them away. Once they had made it up a flight, Dax held her hand up to stop them. They listened to see if anyone had noticed. They heard nothing. The light from the doorway never changed, so they continued up to the proper floor.

The hallway here seemed wider than the other one, and the doors were set wider apart. Dax checked the tricorder again and stopped suddenly beside one of them. "Here," she whispered. Again, the door was locked, but it took her less time now to open the laboratory door than it had outside. She inserted the tool inside the lock and turned. Thomas heard a click and the door opened.

The lab looked like any other lab Thomas had ever seen, except that there were beakers and tubes here as well as electronic equipment, but no computer or scanning equipment that she could recognize. There were several long black-topped lab tables in the center of the room with tall, glass-fronted cabinets lining two walls. Windows lined the third. One tall file cabinet stood in the far corner, and Novak headed there immediately. Dax found the badge on the center table. She looked up to Thomas and smiled. Thomas stepped back out into the hall, pulling the door behind her. She stopped it just before it could latch into the frame.

* * *

Dax waited for the door to shut and then turned her attention back to the badge. It was in pieces, literally. Luckily it was all laid out on a soft felt pad. It could be lifted as one piece. The face of it was deeply scratched, but in the low light she couldn't see it clearly. Two small wires attached it to what her tricorder told her was a low level power source that sat nearby. She would have to disconnect it. Careful not to disturb anything just yet, she began lifting the biggest pieces, turning them over and squinting in the dim light to see if they were numbered. She lifted only one at a time and replaced it just where it had been before picking up another.

Novak was using a palm beacon to read the files, but without knowing what the Germans had labeled the badge, he'd have little luck in finding its records. He closed the top drawer and pulled open the next one.

Dax finished her search of the tiny pieces without any success. Then she turned up the edges of the pad . . . and found a label. "Lieutenant!" she whispered, waving him over.

Novak left his drawer open and walked back to the center of the room. He approached from the opposite side of the table and leaned over to look at the label, using the beacon to light it. He smiled. "Not very imaginative," he whispered back. "'Electronic Jewelry.'"

Dax smiled too. She had used that one before, telling a twenty-first century man that her comm badge was a brooch. She nodded again and Novak returned to the files. He closed the open drawer and reopened the top one. He began rifling quickly through the folders inside.

Dax, satisfied now that the records would be found, turned her attention back to her work. She opened the tricorder, setting it on the tabletop just beside the disemboweled little badge. She checked its readings and memorized them. Then she carefully pulled the two wires loose.

Novak stopped rifling and pulled one of the files out. He opened it, flipped a few pages, then snapped it shut again. He held it up for her to show that he'd found the right one.

Dax straightened back up and reached inside her jacket, touching the cool smooth surface of her own badge. There was a familiar chirp and the comm line opened. "Dax to _Defiant_," she said, keeping her voice low.

"_Defiant_ here," Sisko's voice answered, equally quiet.

"Prepare for transport," she told him. She waved Novak over with the file. She noted that he again left the drawer open with one file sticking up vertically to mark the place of the one he'd removed.

"I'll patch you directly through to the transporter room."

A second later, the Chief's voice acknowledged the connection. "O'Brien here. We've lost the signal. What are your instructions?"

"I detached its power source," she explained. "Lieutenant Novak has the file and he's ready to go. The badge is on a felt pad. Best to beam it all up together. They've really done a job on it." Even as she said it, she hoped they hadn't done the same to its former owner. "Lock onto my tricorder signal. The pad is approximately twenty by thirty centimeters in area, just to the left of the tricorder."

"Got it," O'Brien confirmed. "Whenever you're ready, Lieutenant."

Novak waited for a nod from Dax and then spoke, "One to beam up, Chief."

* * *

By the time the lieutenant and the badge materialized on the platform, Captain Sisko and Major Kira were back in the transporter room. "How did it go, Lieutenant?" the captain asked, as the Chief collected the felt pad and its myriad minuscule pieces of comm badge. He couldn't move the pad without disturbing them.

"Fairly smoothly thus far, Captain," Novak answered, snapping to attention.

"Let's go, Lieutenant," the Chief called. He snatched the file from Novak's hand and slipped the rigid folder beneath the felt pad. It lifted easily then and he headed out the door to the turbolift. The mess hall was still the only place with a working replicator. Major Kira stepped up to the console to man the transporter while he was gone.

O'Brien tried to walk quickly, but he didn't want to spill or move any of the small pieces. He studied the pieces as he went. The front face of the badge was badly scratched, but he noticed a familiar pattern to it. He wanted to turn it in the light to get a better angle, but the turbolift arrived and moved too quickly. The mess hall was just around the corner.

Despite the hour, the mess hall was still busy with crewmembers finishing up their short breaks or grabbing breakfast before their regular duty shift. Everyone backed away from the replicators at the Lieutenant's order. O'Brien couldn't help but notice the response and felt the costume held a large part of the responsibility.

O'Brien knelt and set the pad in the replicator, smoothly sliding the folder out from under it. He pressed a few controls and the replicator scanned the pad and its contents. He'd already preset the computer to make an mock-up of the badge, replicating the appearance of its parts but not their function. The Germans would only be able to get the same low-level signal from it. Using the folder again, O'Brien slipped the pad out of the way. A new one, identical to the first appeared in its place. He handed the original pad to Novak, who commandeered a table to set it on. Then he handed the folder back to O'Brien.

O'Brien removed the new badge, setting it on the floor in front of him. Its face contained the same familiar scratches. Then O'Brien placed the file in the replicator. A new file appeared beside the old one and Novak removed it, checking its content before he nodded his okay. O'Brien took the original file and lifted the new badge from the floor with it. He stood and found a Security officer in the crowd that was now watching them carefully. "You," he ordered. "Nobody touches that." He nodded toward the original badge. The Security officer nodded as well. O'Brien looked to Novak, but the lieutenant was no longer paying attention. He had already sat down with a PADD in hand to translate the file.

O'Brien left the mess hall and retraced his steps back to transporter room. Barely four minutes had passed since he had left, but he knew that Dax was waiting for him. He set the PADD back on the transporter platform, laying the file beside it. "Ready to go, Major," he called and stepped back out of the way. The familiar sparkle of transporter energy fell immediately upon the two objects, and they disappeared quickly from view.

* * *

Thomas heard the footsteps on the floor below and held her breath, trying to listen harder. The stairs creaked and she knew they were coming. She backed up, letting the door open behind her while she kept her eyes on the stairway. A small circle of light played on the far wall. She stepped inside.

Dax looked up when she entered, but Thomas said nothing. She closed the door quickly, but stopped just short of the frame. Then she pushed it slowly, listening to their footsteps still on the stairs, until she heard it click into place. She locked it. "They're coming," she whispered to Dax.

Just then the tabletop beside Dax's tricorder began to sparkle. "Take the file," Dax ordered. "He marked its place."

The footsteps now sounded loudly in the hall. Thomas snatched up the file folder as soon as all its molecules were in place. She ran as fast as she could without making noise to the file cabinet and found one file sticking up. She checked its label and the label on the folder she held. It belonged just after the vertical one. She slid it in place and closed the drawer, hoping it was a new file cabinet so that it wouldn't squeak.

Dax was still working on the badge when she turned around. The circle of light she'd seen from the hall was now poking underneath the door. Someone turned the handle, tried the lock. Dax was attaching a wire to some of the exposed sections of the badge. There was a short spark and then she was satisfied. She snapped her tricorder closed and moved toward the door. She called for transport as she went.

Thomas wasn't sure why she wanted to go closer to the danger, but Dax was her superior officer and she followed her lead. Whoever was outside was fumbling with the lock now. "_Wer ist da drinnen_?" a male voice yelled.

Dax flattened herself against the wall beside the door's hinge and pulled Thomas over beside her. The lock gave and the door swung open quickly just as the transporter took hold of them both.

"Beautiful timing, Major," Dax said as she stepped down from the pad.

Thomas took a moment to catch her breath. She held her stomach. "I think I felt the doorknob."

Captain Sisko gave them a slight smile. "Good work. Now let's see what we got."

* * *

Sisko led the way to the mess hall. It was still the best place to have a meeting. Besides, they had another half hour before the next shift went off duty. By the time Worf arrived from the bridge, all other crewmembers, except Novak and the Security officer had left for their quarters, some with trays of food in hand. Sisko dismissed the Security officer and O'Brien and Dax began to analyze the badge. Sisko wanted to give them a little time, so he asked Ensign Thomas for a report.

"Things went well enough at first, sir," she told him. "We were seen entering the building, but the lieutenant was able to scare the man off. There were at least two other people in the building, but they didn't appear to hear us. However, someone found out we were up there in the lab. They must have heard something. I heard them coming up the stairs so I went inside and locked the door. We had just enough time to replace everything before they got the door open."

"They didn't see you?"

"No, sir," she replied. "The major beamed us out just in time."

Sisko nodded. He remembered her remark on the transporter pad. It must have been close.

"It's Cardassian!" O'Brien exclaimed.

Sisko and the others crowded around the table to see what Dax and the chief were discussing. He was holding up the face of Bashir's comm badge.

"Well, then we know he was alive to scratch it in there," Sisko decided.

"Let me see it," Kira said. O'Brien handed her the badge. She grew up under Cardassian rule, and, though the crew had become familiar with Cardassian symbols, she would still be the best at reading them. She held it up and tilted it so that the light caught the etchings and further defined them. "It's not Cardassian. He used Cardassian syllables to write in Standard. 'Ar, es, ed, po, len' and then a stardate. Arrested?" she said, putting the syllables together.

"Poland," Thomas finished unenthusiastically. "Do you know how many camps there were in Poland? I don't. There were hundreds, literally hundreds."

"What's the date?" Sisko asked.

Kira peered closer at the badge. She frowned. "The day after we arrived in this century." She passed the badge to Sisko.

"Well, at least we know he was alive for that long," Sisko said, trying to put a good face on it. "That's a good sign. Most of the others weren't. Now we just need to know which camp he was taken to. Could you hazard a guess as to his chances, Ensign?"

Thomas took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "Well, it depends where he was taken. If it was a concentration or labor camp, his chances might be, relatively speaking of course, rather high. He was young and probably healthier than any of the other new arrivals. If he kept his head down, didn't draw attention to himself, his chances would be pretty good."

"Let's work on that assumption then," Sisko said. "Is there anything else the badge can tell us?"

"Well, we can give it a good working over," O'Brien suggested, "maybe find a DNA trace. Then we'd know for sure that he wrote it."

Kira must have still been tired. "Who else would know Cardassian?" she asked.

"The changeling," Dax answered.

"Mr. Novak," Sisko snapped, breaking the mood and drawing the lieutenant away from the corner table where he had been sitting the entire time. "Did you find anything useful?"

"Most of it," Novak said, checking his PADD, "is scientific readings and measurements and suspicions about the badge. They think it might be a radio device used in espionage." He set the PADD down and lifted a piece of paper from the file. "But," he said with a flourish, "we also have a custody receipt of sorts, giving the university rights to hold and study the object. They were to extract the electronics and send the precious metals back for deposit with the Reichsbank. Orders given by the Economic Administration Headquarters in Berlin. Unfortunately, it doesn't say where the Economic Adminstration got it in the first place."

* * *

Lieutenant Novak walked back to his quarters, trying to think in German. His grandmother had spoken German always, never bothering with Standard or universal translators. So when, as a child, he had visited her for the summer in Dusseldorf, he had spoken German as well. Always in May it had been difficult because he first had to translate what he wanted to say before he said it. But by August, his thoughts were in German, and his speech just flowed from that.

The university had been easy. Two sentences to a guy in the street. But the Economic Administration Headquarters would be different. They would be going down in broad daylight to a Nazi government agency in Germany's capital. He had to sound like a Gestapo agent, a native German. So he needed to think like one, too.

The _Defiant_ was well within transporter range for the headquarters already. But they had to wait for the offices to open, so he still had a few hours to catch up on his interrupted sleep. He was fortunate in that the away team members were pulled off the regular duty roster. They would now hold shifts that fit Europe's daylight hours, at least until it became necessary to handle things at night. Bureaucracy took place in the daytime, though, and it was bureaucracy they would be dealing with until they tracked down the camp where Doctor Bashir was being held.

He slept for six hours. Halfway through, his dreams changed over to German, and when Lieutenant Commander Dax called to wake him, he even acknowledged her in that language first and had to translate his thoughts back into English. He was glad. It would make things easier down below.

* * *

The first time she'd removed her spots for an away team, she hadn't minded. Though that had been a serious mission, there was a lot of fun involved, running around Captain James T. Kirk's _Enterprise_. But yesterday and now today, it was disconcerting when she looked at her reflection. She admitted to herself, it wasn't just the unmarked skin around her face, but also what she was wearing. She didn't recognize herself. Her visage in the mirror was not ugly, but it wasn't pleasant either. To her at least, it was eerie. Still, she fit the part.

Today they would be facing something much worse than the few Germans they had run into the day before. Today, they'd have to delve into the Germans' bureaucracy. That was frightening in any culture. She was glad she didn't speak German. Novak would, in outward appearance anyway, be the senior officer while on the planet. He would do the talking, and he would be the one to deal with the bureaucrats.

She met Thomas at the transporter room. She looked just as eerie, Dax thought. But she chalked it up to the ensign's mood, which she figured was a mixture of excitement and curiosity tinged with disgust and utter horror.

Novak arrived shortly after. "_Guten Morgen_," he said without thinking. "Um, good morning, Captain."

Sisko was there again to see them off. "You should be asleep, Benjamin," Dax scolded.

He didn't look too tired really. He smiled. "I'll catch up during my next break, Old Man. Be careful down there. Don't spend too much time in the streets."

"Of course," Dax acknowledged, stepping onto the transporter pad. "We'll be back before you know it. Energize."

She couldn't have been more wrong. But then, it had been an awfully long time since she'd had to contend with a bureaucracy that actually dealt with paper records. As slow as computerized red tape could be, paper was a thousand times slower. And the people dealing with the paper weren't much faster. In fact they were all rather unhelpful in spite of the obvious fear in their faces when confronted with Novak's imposing Gestapo presence. The first person they had met was a security guard who enjoyed too much the power of his office. He kept them waiting and answering questions for nearly half an hour and had concluded by calling to verify their information. Only a quick call to the _Defiant_ had saved them. Worf intercepted the telephone call, verified their identities, and told the guard, in no uncertain terms, to let them pass. Then, of course, the guard had to call ahead to warn those inside that the Gestapo was coming up.

The receptionist they were sent to wasn't any better. She kept telling them to wait. The man they needed to see wasn't in yet. They had waited for him for two hours while the receptionist kept filling them full of some sort of fake coffee. The real thing was scarce apparently. When the man finally did come, they were still kept waiting while he had his ersatz coffee and got settled in to his office. Finally, they were allowed to see him, only to be told, after forty-five minutes of explaining, that they were in the wrong office. They needed to see a different person, the regional director, on the next floor up.

When they got up there, the secretary informed them that her boss had stepped out for lunch. She suggested they do the same and come back later that afternoon. When Novak reminded her that they were in a hurry, she pointedly reminded him that they had not made an appointment. He tried explaining to her that they needed to see the director about an investigation, she became even more adamant that it was impossible to see the director. She couldn't make him appear when he was at lunch. She couldn't help and they would just have to wait. Dax had noticed that she was nearly in tears at that point, so they did as she suggested and went out for lunch.

The streets themselves were filled with banners as the university had been. They were also full of uniforms, even on children. Thomas explained some of them. Hitler Youth for the children and teenagers. SS, Wehrmacht, and other organizations for the adults. Even those not in uniform showed their support of the system by armbands, lapel pins or flags hanging in their shop windows.

They found a quiet little restaurant a couple blocks down from the Economic Administration Headquarters. They chose a dark booth in the back and Novak ordered for them. The food was actually quite good. While they ate, Novak filled them in on what had been said that morning. He spoke in quick, almost harsh, words. Dax thought maybe she even heard an accent. He was obviously quite agitated by the stubbornness of the others. Thomas explained that they were probably afraid.

"Maybe going Gestapo was overkill," she said. "We terrify everyone. They probably think we're investigating them."

Dax decided it was best to let the _Defiant_ know why it was taking them so long. Thomas then remembered that they had no money for the meal. No one was watching, so they had O'Brien beam down a hundred Deutschmarks. It would pay for the meal and leave some extra for any other contingencies that came up.

When they returned to the Economic Administration Headquarters, the regional director's secretary was even more uncomfortable. The director had been called away in an emergency and wouldn't be back until next week. It seemed that Thomas was right. Dax figured that the director had returned while they were at lunch. The secretary had warned him, and he ran off leaving her to cover for him. That was why she was so uncomfortable.

Novak tried to explain to her that they were not there to arrest anyone. They only wanted to find out where a certain item had come from. But she insisted that she couldn't help them. The director was out of town and she knew nothing. And, no, there was no one else who would know where the object came from. They would have to wait to see the director or find another way to trace its origin. She obviously preferred the latter.

That there was no other way to trace it seemed of little importance to her. She just wanted them to leave. With assurances that the director would be back on Monday, she got her wish. Novak made an appointment for two in the afternoon on Monday, and the three of them left.

Novak had managed to keep his temper in check while in the office, but once they beamed back up to the ship he let it go. "That is crazy!" he exclaimed. "How can anyone be so stubborn? I told her we weren't after her or the director."

"She was afraid," Thomas explained. "Everyone was afraid of the Gestapo. Anyone could denounce anyone else. The Nazis didn't just terrorize their enemies. They used terror as domestic policy."

Novak wasn't the only one who was disappointed. It was Friday down on the planet. They would have to wait three days before they could try again. Sisko was upset as well, but he tried to hide it. O'Brien had managed to get the ready room's computer in working order, so the debriefing had been moved to there.

"So what are we going to do for three days?" Kira asked, clearly annoyed.

Sisko sighed and stood up. "Fix this vessel. We want to be ready to leave once we do find him. Unless someone can come up with another way to scan for Bashir, we should put everyone to work repairing the shields and warp engines and any other systems we'll need for the jump. For now, the three of you are back on the roster. Major, work with the Chief for assignments."

* * *

Julian Bashir had decided that the changeling was depressed. She hardly seemed to notice him all that day, even when he slipped in the snow and fell down narrowly missing the wet cement. Normally, she would have at least been entertained. More often, though, she would have beaten him for being clumsy. But today she was letting her partner do the beating. And he couldn't be everywhere at once. The result was, in a sense, a day off. The prisoners still had to work, of course, but not at the usual pace. Now they only worked hard when the human SS was around or when Heiler seemed to be paying attention. The _kapo_, as usual, kept up appearances, yelling and haranguing the prisoners with a ferocious intensity. But it was only verbal and rarely came to actual blows.

The _kapo_ again picked Bashir to carry the midday meal. His partner was someone Bashir didn't know though he'd seen him working at the site before. But he hadn't seen him around for the last few days. The man said nothing as they trudged along the road leading back toward camp. Bashir wasn't surprised. Szymon was the only person in the kommando who would speak to him now that Henri was in the hospital. Bashir had tried to visit the Frenchman, but found it to be impossible. Each night the lines of the sick and wounded waiting to get into the hospital were just as long as they had been the night they had taken Henri there. Visitors were out of the question. Still, he planned to go and try again after evening roll call.

The man who was with him didn't look particularly well himself, even for a prisoner. His face was red, and he was sweating despite the cold wind. Fever. He looked nervously at the hospital area when they passed it and sped up his steps making it hard for Bashir to keep up. Bashir glanced over but couldn't see anything out of the ordinary there. The man was even worse after they got the soup. At first, the man had wanted to take the left handle so that he could carry it with his right hand. Bashir had been forced to unwrap his hand to show him why it was impossible for Bashir to take the right side. And once that was settled, the pace again became a point of contention. Bashir wanted, and needed, to go slowly. It was difficult to walk, given his flogging injuries, but it was worse with the heavy can. Despite his fever, the other man seemed in a hurry to return to the work site.

He tried to speed up again as they passed the hospital block, but Bashir let his side of the can down to the ground, stopping them both. There was something out of the ordinary going on there now. A truck had been pulled up in front of one of the buildings, and prisoners, without clothes or blankets, were being carried out and stacked inside it. Bashir thought at first that they were dead, but he saw one of them still moving and then another. And he could faintly hear their cries for mercy. It had to be a selection, like Henri and Szymon had talked about. An SS officer in a white lab coat came to the door yelling something to the prisoners loading the condemned into the truck.

"_Chodź!_" his partner urged, shoving Bashir in the arm until he turned away from the scene. "_Musimy lecieć w tej chwili!_"

Bashir picked up the can and continued walking. He knew that Henri would be put in the truck. His injuries had been too severe. He thought of Henri and his dream of going to America to see his sister. He wondered if his sister would ever even know what happened to him. Who was there to even notice that he was gone?

This was not the first time that someone died in Auschwitz, nor the first that Bashir had seen, but it was different this time. He had known the man, even if only for a few days. All the rest had been nameless pieces of history, and Bashir had felt a twinge of guilt at the near-nothingness he felt at their deaths. He was too much surrounded by his own body to feel their pain and anguish. He had too much of his own to deal with. He had only been glad everyday that he was not yet among them.

But this time it was Henri. Henri, who probably wasn't quite dead yet, but who most likely had been piled in that truck, stacked like so much firewood, on top of other bodies and more placed over him. He felt different this time, almost as if he was with them. But it didn't last long. He had to pay attention to reality. He had to think about his feet. Each step was perilous due to his wooden shoes, the poor condition of the road, the heavy can he carried, and his own stiff, unnatural gait. And the other man was still going too fast. Henri would have to wait.

* * *

The weekend passed uneventfully on the _Defiant_, with the exception of the shields, which were currently functioning at forty percent capacity. Stevens expected they would be twice as strong by the end of the day. Everyone knew that still would not be enough to protect the ship from the sun's radiation on the trip back, but Stevens and O'Brien both concurred that there was no indication that the shields would not be completely repaired by the end of the week. That left only the warp drive and, of course, Bashir.

This time, Thomas remembered to replicate a pad of paper. It wouldn't be unusual for Gestapo agents to be taking notes for their investigation. But she had really wanted it to jot down notes on what was being said for Dax. Thomas caught enough words and phrases of the German that Novak and the secretary were speaking that she could understand the gist of the conversation. Dax, without the universal translator, got nothing, and Thomas had noticed how bored she had looked on Friday. With the notepad, Thomas could at least provide a running score, so to speak, of the away mission.

Ten minutes after they beamed down, though, she was sure the Germans were winning. The security guard detained them at the door a second time, until Novak, in a stroke of genius, complimented the man on his attention to duty and offered to put his name in with the SS. Perhaps he could be transferred to a concentration camp, maybe Majdanek. Poland was lovely this time of year, after all. Dax had smiled as she read the rough translation Thomas offered her as they walked up the stairs to the director's office.

They had left the _Defiant_ early, anticipating delays like the security guard. As a consequence, they were still ten minutes early for their appointment with the regional director. His secretary looked no less nervous than she had before. In fact, she seemed more nervous. Her hands shook and she kept wringing them together.

"_Sie sind früh dran!_" she squeaked. It was a short phrase, and Thomas had no problem understanding it. They had surprised the secretary by being early.

"_Nur ein paar Minuten,_" Novak replied. He smiled genuinely and tried to engage her in a little small talk. She didn't converse though, and only agreed to his assessments of the weather and the city. Novak sighed and then asked if they could see the director now. "_Können wir den Direktor sprechen?_"

The secretary stopped wringing her hands and placed them on her desk. She stared at Novak with wide eyes and slowly shook her head. "_Ich fürchte,_" she said, "_der Direktor ist nicht im Hause. Er fühlte sich nicht gut._"

Dax tugged Thomas's elbow, so Thomas quickly scribbled a interpretation which Dax read over her shoulder. _He's not in_, she wrote. _I think he's sick. _

Novak, who had been doing his best to appear kind and patient with her, now rolled his eyes. "_Wir hatten einen Termin,_" he told her, reminding her of the appointment.

"_Er hat seine Termine für die ganze Woche abgesagt,_" the secretary tried to explain. Thomas wrote on the pad that the director would be out all week. No appointments. "_Ich wußte nicht, wie ich Sie erreichen sollte. Vielleicht können wir den Termin umlegen._" The secretary reached for the appointment book she kept at the corner of the desk.

Novak leaned forward and put his hand on the book, closing it. "_Wir haben keine Woche Zeit._" He was right. Thomas knew they couldn't wait a week to see the director. And she also suspected that if they did reschedule the appointment, the director would come down with some other sickness then.

The secretary was speechless. She didn't know what to say now. Novak smiled again. "_Vielleicht können Sie den Direktor telefonisch erreichen._"

The secretary looked at the telephone and then back to Novak who was still smiling. Her hand reached slowly to the receiver. Then she drew it back. "_Er mag es nicht, wenn ich ihn zu Hause anrufe."_

"Ich denke, daß er es weniger mögen würde, wenn ich ihn zu Hause anrufen würde," Novak mumbled. He stopped smiling and sighed, rubbing his eyes. "_Würden Sie bitte aufstehen?_"

Thomas didn't understand what Novak was getting at. He was clearly losing his patience. Telling the woman to get up from her desk had terrified her. Very slowly, she stood. Dax couldn't say anything, but her eyebrows furrowed as she read the notepad.

"_Bitte treten Sie rüber zur Couch._" Unfortunately, Thomas and Dax were sitting on the couch. Thomas nudged Dax's elbow and they stood. The secretary moved out from behind her desk. Tears welled up in her eyes, though she held her head high and tried to hide her fear. Novak didn't move, but stayed put at the front of her desk, turning as she passed him. She looked back once at him, but he motioned for her to continue, smiling again.

Thomas was afraid she would faint, but she kept on, one slow step at a time, coming toward the couch as she had been instructed. Thomas watched the woman's face, offering no emotional reaction so that she might not blow her cover. She was supposed to be Novak's subordinate. She had to support his decisions. Dax did the same, though she shot Novak a questioning look. From the corner of her eye, Thomas saw Novak reach into his pocket. He shrugged and then fired the phaser he now held.

The secretary stopped when the beam hit her and just stood for a few seconds, the fear in her eyes gone. Then her knees buckled and she fell. Thomas let the pad and pen fall from her hands and reached out to catch her. "Only stunned," Novak reassured them as they placed her on the couch. "We were getting nowhere."

"You could have warned us," Dax said as she placed a small pillow under the woman's head.

"Sorry, Commander, but I don't think that was possible. Besides, I have an idea." He walked around the desk and sat in the woman's chair. "The director is _ill_," he said, raising his eyebrows on the last word, "and won't be in all week. So maybe we should go to him. We just have to find where he lives." He started looking through the drawers of her desk.

"By the telephone," Thomas offered. She was on the floor. Her pen had fallen under the couch. "There should be some cards or a list with phone numbers and addresses. But he might not be home. He might be out of town."

"Right," Novak exclaimed. "Found it." He started flipping through the cards looking for the director's name.

Thomas finally took hold of the pen and stood. The skirt she wore didn't make it easy. It didn't offer enough movement for her legs. Dax was looking through the appointment book. "He had appointments this morning," she said. "He hasn't had time to leave town."

"I'll bet he's home packing then," Novak said. "Can I borrow that please?" He pointed to Thomas's pad.

She let him have it and the pen too. He'd found the address. "We should beam over. He probably figures he has some time before we'd come after him."

"I guess he'll be surprised then," Dax quipped and then called for the transport.

They rematerialized in a small wooded park about a block away from the director's house. There was a car parked out front. Its engine was running. The driver inside saw them walk up and seemed nervous, but he made no move to drive away. A woman answered the door. She smiled broadly until she noticed that it was the Gestapo. "_Er ist nicht zu Hause_," she stammered as Novak took a step inside the door. She staggered back away from him as she kept trying to convince him that her husband was not in. She raised her voice so that anyone in the house was bound to hear.

"_Wir sind nicht hier, um Ihren Mann festzunehmen,_" Novak tried to console her. "_Wir brauchen nur ein paar Informationen. Es ist sehr wichtig._"

By that time, the director's wife had retreated well into the house. Novak didn't let up, though he still spoke to her kindly, explaining that it was information, not her husband that they were interested in.

Just then a man started down the stairs from the second floor with a small suitcase. "_Steht das Auto bereit?_" he said. He froze when he saw the four of them. His wife looked up to him. Her eyes plead for him to run away. And he obeyed. He dropped the suitcase and ran back up the stairs.

Dax was the first to react, and she bounded up the stairs after him, taking the steps two at a time. The wife began to cry and tried to run herself, but Novak caught her. Seeing that she was under control, Thomas followed up the stairs. Dax had the man tackled at the top. He tried to pull away and fight her, but he was no match for Dax, who wrestled holosuite Klingons as a form of exercise. "_Wir wollen nur Informationen haben_," Thomas told him, hoping her grammar was correct.

"_Lassen Sie meine Frau in Ruhe,_" he pleaded. "_Sie hat nichts damit zu tun. Nehmen Sie mich fest, aber lassen Sie sie in Ruhe._" Thomas wondered just what it was that his wife didn't have anything to do with. Perhaps the director really did have reason to fear arrest by the Gestapo. Maybe he was keeping some of the valuables from the camps for himself. But it didn't really matter, not to the mission at hand.

"_Bitte, Herr Direktor_," Novak shouted, "_wir sind nicht hier, um Sie oder Ihre Frau festzunehmen. Wir brauchen nur ein paar Informationen. Bitte kommen Sie nach unten._"

It took awhile, but things went more calmly after that. It took an hour and a half to convince the two of them that they had nothing to fear. By the time the clock on the wall cuckooed three o'clock, the wife was offering them each second cups of the ersatz coffee she was serving, and the director was ready to return with them to the office.

The driver had since left the premises and a taxi had to be called. It took another half hour to get to the office, but Novak kept the director busy talking while Thomas and Dax sat quietly staring out the windows at the city. Thomas had been to Berlin before. It was a beautiful city, if more modern than most of the other European capitals. The Reichstag building, the Brandenburg Gate, and some of the old churches still remained though, echoes of this time and before. It was odd to Thomas to see the streets and buildings bedecked with Nazi banners. She had imagined them that way on her trips here when she was studying history. She remembered standing outside the Reichstag, looking over at the Brandenburg Gate and seeing, not the peaceful scene of tourists and Federation citizens walking by past its columns, but a long parade of black-uniformed SS goosestepping beneath it while thousands of adoring Germans saluted from the sides of the street. It had been just a flash, an instant of history thrust before her eyes, before it faded to the familiar site of modern transport vehicles and pedestrians. She caught more than a glimpse of it this time as they drove by.

The secretary was awake and still afraid when they returned to the office. She stared at her boss, mouth wide, when he walked in laughing at something Novak had said. Thomas had stopped trying to interpret it for Dax long before they had gotten into the car. It wasn't relevant to the mission anyway.

"_Bitte bring unsern Gästen doch etwas Kaffee,_" the director told her.

Thomas shook her head and held up a hand. "_Nein danke._" She'd really had enough coffee for the day. Dax did likewise, mimicking her German perfectly.

"_Ich hätte gerne welchen,_" Novak said. He smiled pleasantly, but the secretary still seemed suspicious. She didn't smile back. She went to fetch the coffee, but every few steps she would turn her head back toward them. Thomas wondered how much she remembered before she was stunned. She must have been very confused.

"_Wir sollten etwas finden können_," the director was saying as he invited them into his office. "_Kann ich die Akte nochmal sehen?_"

"_Selbstverständlich,_" Novak replied, removing the copied file from his pocket. He handed it to the director who read it over carefully as he sat down behind his large desk. The secretary never did return with the coffee, but Novak didn't mention it. He and the director were getting along well now. Thomas was getting bored. She couldn't contribute to the conversation or the search for information. Dax apparently felt the same way. She struggled every few minutes to stifle a yawn. The director didn't seem to notice, but Thomas did. And it made it all the more difficult for her. Every time Dax tried not to yawn, her body wanted to follow suit.

It took several calls to a few other offices before the director was able to offer them a lead. With him on their side, they now found that there was quite a bit more cooperation forthcoming from the office. Still, bureaucracy was bureaucracy and the information about the badge was difficult to track down. It was nearly five when they had the file in their hands. Novak borrowed Thomas's pad again as he jotted down information. Thomas tried to peer over his shoulder, but he really was a tall man and she wanted to keep her decorum. She would have to wait.

The director had accompanied them to every office and department. Novak thanked him heartily, and the two even shared an embrace before the director showed them to the door. Once outside and alone again, Novak dropped his smile instantly and sighed. "What a monster!" he whispered.

"You seemed to get along rather well, Lieutenant," Dax teased.

"I always enjoyed acting, Commander," he replied. "It's a hobby." They were heading toward an alley where they could safely transport back to the ship.

"Well?" Thomas asked.

Novak stopped and stared at her. "Well what?"

Dax put on her most gracious, parental smile. "The file, the one we just spent the last three hours trying to obtain."

"Oh, that!" Novak seemed genuinely surprised. He handed Dax the notepad. She shared it with Thomas. Written in large letters there was a date, 11 February, and one word: Bialystok. "That's all I got."

Thomas was disappointed. "Not even a transport number? Or a destination?"

Novak's answer was delayed by the transport. He answered, though, as soon as they rematerialized on the transporter pad. "No. There wasn't anything else in the file. Just that."

"Just what?" Captain Sisko asked. It was only then that Thomas realized they had an audience. Major Kira was there as well.

Dax handed him the pad of paper and then tried to report. "It took awhile, but Mr. Novak got the director to cooperate. Actually he went out of his way to be helpful."

"This is the date they found the badge?" Sisko was reading the pad. He handed it to Kira.

"What's Bialystok?" she asked, looking to Thomas for the answer.

Thomas shrugged. She had to look to the computer for the answer. "It's a city in northern Poland," she answered finally. "There was a ghetto there for Jews."

"No, sir," Novak said in reply to the captain's question. "It's the date the badge arrived at the Economic Administration Headquarters. It's nearly a week after his arrest."

"Well, I suppose that can be a good sign, too," the captain stated. He didn't look encouraged though. His jaw was still set hard, and there was a puffiness around his eyes. "Well, Ensign, do you think a change in costume is in order?"

Thomas looked at him for a moment before she realized what he was saying. "For Bialystok? We'll need to see the _Judenrat_, I would think. SS?"

Sisko nodded. "How long until we're in transporter range, Chief?"

* * *

Heiler was back to his--her--usual self. She'd found excuses three times to beat him already this morning. Bashir was glad then when the midday meal came, and he would at least be able to sit down. But Heiler stared at him as he ate, never moving or passing his attention to any of the other prisoners. There was a look of pure hatred burning in his false eyes that Bashir could see from twenty meters away. It scared him. He wasn't sure why exactly. She had done nearly everything she could to him short of killing him outright. He lived in pain now, to one degree or another. She could only cause that to continue. She couldn't really make it worse.

There was a commotion at the other end of the undressing room. One of the prisoners there had been caught by the other SS, though Bashir didn't know why. The dog barked incessantly and ferociously. He strained and struggled against the leash that held him so that the SS man with him was nearly pulled off his feet. Heiler stopped staring and actually smiled at Bashir before he went over to offer his assistance.

There were orders shouted in German. The _kapo_ joined in, exhorting the prisoners to obey with his club. The meal was over. They had to pour out their watery soup. Bashir's back and shoulders hurt from the beatings he'd received, but neither compared to the feeling of hunger he constantly had. It was perhaps the hardest thing he had ever done to turn over his bowl and watch the vile liquid fall to the snow.

"_Aufstellen in Fünferreihen! SOFORT!_" the _kapo_ shouted. He pulled men up from their seats and pushed them into a line.

"Something bad," Szymon whispered in his ear. But Bashir already knew that. Nothing good ever came out of a change in the daily routine.

The line was made. Sixty men, five abreast, minus the one being punished, all turned to face the SS and the _kapo_. Bashir was in the second row, with Piotr and Szymon to his left. The subject of the punishment was already laid out over a pile of bricks, poised for a lashing. He was crying. His shoulders shook violently with his sobs.

The SS dog-handler gave the _kapo_ his whip. But just as the _kapo_ raised it to begin the flogging, Heiler stopped him. "_Ihr Fünf!_" he shouted, pointing right at Bashir. "_Ab nach hinten. Sofort! Der Rest schließt nach vorne auf._"

Bashir didn't understand, but the man just in front of him, and the two to either side of that man, moved quickly back through the lines. "_Aufschließen!_" the _kapo_ screamed. Bashir followed the others and moved up. They now had a clear view of the sobbing victim.

"_Jetzt._" the dog-handler said, clearly impatient with the whole proceeding. The _kapo_ raised the whip.

"_Noch nicht,_" Heiler stopped him again. "_Und du nicht_." The _kapo_ looked at him in confusion, as did the dog-handler. But Heiler was calm, he was even smiling. "_Herr Engländer_, won't you join us?"

Bashir froze. He didn't know what she was after, but he was sure now that he had been wrong. It could be worse. She could always make it worse. He didn't know why she would want to have him flogged as well, but he also knew she didn't need an excuse, not while she wore that uniform. "Please," Heiler said, becoming impatient. He was pointing to the spot where the _kapo_ still stood.

Bashir obeyed automatically. He wanted to stop his legs from moving forward, but he didn't know how.

"_Gib ihm die Peitsche,_" Heiler told the _kapo_, still smiling, only now the smile was broader.

The _kapo_ held the whip out to Bashir. As he did, he met his eyes. There was pain there, and sadness and helplessness. _One can only obey_, they said.

Bashir found he couldn't breath. "I can't," he whispered, shaking his head. His hand didn't move.

Heiler moved in quickly, snatching the whip and pushing the _kapo_ away. He grabbed Bashir's hand and thrust the handle of the whip in it. His smile was gone, and the evil was back in his eyes. "You will," he snarled.

Julian looked to the poor man on the bricks. Even now the _kapo_ was pulling his pants down, revealing his buttocks and back. He looked away, to the trees that lay beyond the barbed wire. And somewhere there, Julian found his spirit. He turned back and stood up to his full height. He looked Heiler directly in the eyes. "No," he said, with a force that spoke of freedom. He let the whip fall to the ground.

Heiler's arm snapped out, connecting with his face and sending him sprawling to the ground. "It wasn't a question," he spat. He yanked Bashir back up by the collar and again placed the whip in his hand. Then he pulled out his sidearm, placing the barrel at Bashir's temple. "You will strike him until we tell you to stop. Or I will shoot."

Bashir stood straight again. So this was it. Now he would die. It was over.

"Oh, it's not that easy, _Herr Engländer_." The gun moved from his temple. It now faced behind him to where the other prisoners were waiting. "I will shoot one of them."

Bashir felt his breath stop up in his chest again. He closed his eyes. He couldn't. How could he? To beat a man, probably to death. It was impossible. But he didn't doubt she would shoot. He glanced over his shoulder. His hand shook. He didn't know what to do. He looked at Heiler, the changeling, and pleaded with her silently. She had won.

The sound was deafening so close to his ear. He looked to the line as Piotr fell, a flood of red spilling onto the gray-white snow. Bashir fell himself; his knees buckled. He braced himself, sobbing tearlessly. He saw Heiler from the corner of his eye raise the gun to point at another. Life had become an absurdity he didn't want anymore. But the choice was not his. The gun was pointed at another man. Heiler's finger contracted against the trigger, and all was lost.


	11. Chapter 11

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Eleven**

Max wrapped his coat tighter around him against the biting wind. He also didn't want the SS to know about the bread he had hidden beneath it. A full loaf. He had found it on the train, wrapped in a shawl beside a dead woman. She wouldn't need it anymore. A few weeks ago, the sight of her might have bothered him, but he'd seen many such bodies now. Death was easy in Auschwitz. It was survival that was hard.

The _kapo_ took them by the quarantine camp before heading back. The flood lights from the outer fence lit it in an eerie glow. Max glanced in as he passed, hoping to see that Vláďa was still well. Well enough, anyway. He counted the barracks as he passed until he found Vláďa's. There were several men still milling about in front of the barracks, but Max didn't recognize any of them. He could see the _Blockälteste_ though. He stomped around, yelling incoherent commands and smacking those prisoners he could reach.

A whisper passed down the rows of the kommando like a breeze passing over a field of wheat. A few seconds and it was gone, hardly drawing the attention of anyone who wasn't poised to notice it. The SS marched on. But Max had heard it. There was something in the fence. He strained his neck to see what it was the whisper was referring to. He could make out a dark figure there, silhouetted against the orange haze of the flood lights near the corner where the road led deeper into the camp.

The kommando moved quickly and the form grew closer. Max could now see that it was a man. His arms raised high; his hands clenched the electrified wire. He wore nothing, and his head faced up to heaven--if it was still there. As they neared the corner, Max could see the pile of striped clothes, neatly folded, just beside him. A pair of real, leather shoes graced the top of the pile. Max pushed the man beside him just a little to get a better look. The man had hair, short and stubbly, but no shorter than Max's. He wasn't new to quarantine. And he wasn't emaciated. His bones didn't protrude against his skin like so many of the other prisoners, especially those in quarantine. Max rounded the corner and the face came into view. Vláďa's face, young and troubled, released of its pain. His blinded eyes looked up through the murky smoke to where the stars were supposed to be shining. The line ran on and Max with it.

Roll call was longer that evening. Someone was late. It was quite dark by the time they found him. Max wasn't sure why he was late. He didn't really care. He only wanted to move his legs, to get out of the wind and to eat his bread. And he wanted to stop thinking about Vláďa. _At least Vláďa had chosen his own way_, he consoled himself. But, still he felt a loss. _He would have died anyway_. He could have had a life though, had not the Nazis started this war. He was young, full of life, innocence, and dreams. The Nazis took away his dreams, the _Blockälteste_ took his innocence, and Vláďa, left with nothing, gave up his life.

The late man was beaten and lain by the corpses and the count went on. This time the numbers matched up. The roll call was over. Max hurried to get his evening ration, wondering if he should tell Bashir about the boy. The doctor had enough problems. He had been quite saddened by Henri's demise, and Max thought that he blamed himself for it. For the last few days he had looked very much like when he was released from the Death Block. He spoke very little and never looked directly at anyone.

Max found the barracks at the same time everyone else did and had to push his way inside through the crowd. Still guarding the bread beneath his coat, he shoved his way through to his bunk and climbed up to the top. Szymon was already there.

"I have bread," Max told him, speaking German since that was a language Szymon understood. Then Max noticed that Piotr was not with him. They were always together. He thought for a moment about asking Szymon where he was, but the blank stare on Szymon's face, and the blood spattered on his right shoulder, told the answer already. Piotr was dead. Best not to talk about how or why.

"Heiler killed him," Szymon said suddenly, as if he had known what Max was thinking. "He was my brother." He said nothing else after that. Max held out some bread to him, and he took it. Max had also noticed that Bashir wasn't with him. He was afraid to ask about the doctor. But then, Bashir didn't normally come straight inside. He always sat awhile outside, looking up through the smoke to the stars. Max wasn't sure why he did that. It wasn't much warmer inside the barracks, but at least one could get out of the wind. And the sheer multitude of bodies raised the temperature a few degrees.

When the call came from the _Blockälteste_, warning that the door would be locked in ten minutes, Max began to worry. Bashir still had not returned.

Szymon sat up. "You should go and get him."

Well, at least he was alive. Max wondered though why he wouldn't come in on his own. Had Piotr's death meant so much to him? Perhaps he felt responsible for that too, as he had for Henri's.

He only had a few minutes more, so Max climbed down and walked as quickly as possible to the outside door. He nearly tripped and he couldn't help but step on a few of the men sleeping on the floor. They yelled at him, but were already too weak to do much else.

The _Stubenälteste_ was just about to lock the door when he reached it. Max was sure it was still a little early. "Please," Max said, "two minutes. There's someone still outside." He pulled the loaf of bread from his coat and handed it to the _Stubenälteste_. He had already broken off a little for Bashir and himself. "I thought perhaps you were hungry."

The other man snatched the bread from him quickly. "Two minutes. Then I shut the door, and you and your friend freeze to death."

Max thanked him and the _Stubenälteste_ opened the door a crack. Max hurried outside, praying that the man would keep his word and not lock the door right away.

Bashir was just around the corner in his usual spot. Only this time, he leaned back against the wall, and he wasn't watching the sky. His head hung down, staring at his own hands as they lay across his thighs. He didn't move and Max thought maybe he had already frozen. But he moved when Max touched his shoulder.

He looked up to see who had disturbed him, and Max was stunned by his eyes. Like with Szymon, there was an emptiness there, a sight that looked through a person as if there was only air. But there was also a sadness there, and it burned right through to Max's soul. Something bad had happened at work. Something involving Piotr and, Max was sure, Bashir as well.

"We must go in," he told him, knowing that he wouldn't understand the words. Still the message should be clear enough. Bashir didn't say anything, and his expression didn't change. But he did move. Max took his good arm and helped him to stand. He wouldn't walk on his own, but he went where Max led him.

The _Stubenälteste_ kept his word, and the door was still unlocked. Max pushed Bashir through ahead of himself and led him back toward the bunk. The lights were already out, so it was harder to step around the sleeping men. Despite his daze, Bashir moved carefully avoiding them with each step and not taking another until he was sure the way was clear. It was too slow, and it annoyed Max, but he knew there was no point arguing. Neither understood the other, and, at the moment, Bashir didn't seem to be able to speak in any language. He moved automatically, not like a man, and climbed the bunks on his own. He undressed and laid down quietly, not even bothering to take the bread that Max offered. Max wrapped it up again and stuffed it away. He would try again tomorrow.

* * *

Sisko paced the transporter room. The away team had been gone for over seven hours already without a word. He was beginning to worry about them as well as the doctor.

"They've gone as SS, sir," O'Brien reminded him. "Nobody would dare touch them."

"There were revolts in the ghettos," Sisko countered. Still he saw no point in furthering the argument.

"Sir!" It was O'Brien again, but this time, he was concentrating on the transporter controls. "I've got them. They're ready for transport."

"By all means, Chief," Sisko sighed. He felt better. He didn't want to lose any more people. Sending them down as Germans in with Germans was one thing. But sending them down among the Jews was different. He knew they needed the information, but he felt guilty for doing it, as if he was siding with the Nazis.

They materialized slowly, each one standing stoically, stiffly on the pad. But as the transporter released them, everything about them changed. Most notable was Lieutenant Novak's reaction. He threw off his coat and began to unbutton his jacket. "The bastards!" he spat. "I want to burn this."

"And I'd like to watch," Thomas added dourly, "but we'll probably be needing it later."

Dax was quiet, her normally serene face now showed signs of her true age. She let herself collapse until she was sitting on the pad. "I have never seen anything . . . ," she began. "I counted fifteen dead children just lying on the street before we even made it to the _Judenrat_. And those that weren't dead. . . . They looked at me with such hatred. And I had to look at them with disgust!" She looked up at him, pleading. "That is the hardest thing that I have ever done."

Sisko's heart wrenched. He had already imagined what the ghetto must have been like. But they still had a missing doctor and a job to do. "Did you get the transport number?" By now, all three away team members were sitting down. The debriefing was going to happen right there in the transporter room, appropriate or not.

"No, sir," Thomas answered. "They're supposed to have it for us tomorrow."

"The _Judenrat_," Novak explained, "was not altogether cooperative, as you can imagine. They hated me. I hated me. They kept trying to get around it. They had a million things to do. We put too many demands on them already. I had to order them to look it up. I had to yell at them. I even had to threaten them. And I still don't think they'll do it. I wouldn't do it."

"They'll have it," Thomas said quietly. "He promised me."

"Who promised?" Sisko prodded.

She looked up at him, and a tear fell down her cheek as she spoke. "One of the council members. He was only too eager to help. He made me promise to save his family. He has a little girl. She's ten. He showed me a picture."

"Ensign," Sisko reminded her gently, "we can't save him."

She nodded. "I know. But I'm SS." She touched one of the lightning bolt pins on her collar. "I don't have to keep my promises to a Jew."

"I'm really beginning to hate Starfleet's Temporal Displacement Policy, Benjamin," Dax said as she stood up.

"Me, too." Sisko looked at them. The other two were still sitting there. They looked awful. The ensign especially. Novak looked like he might explode; but Thomas looked broken. He could tell how much that one man had taken out of her. If he did die, she would feel responsible. And she knew better than anyone that he and his family probably would die. "Can you go back tomorrow?" He asked the question of all of them, but he directed it to Thomas.

"We have to find him," she answered. Sisko wasn't sure, at first, who she was referring to. "He can't survive much longer down there. And we're the only hope he has."

* * *

Thomas didn't sleep that night. She tried but when she closed her eyes the man's image came to her, begging her to have mercy. And she would see her own image, too, pretending to play along, laughing on the inside at this weak man crying to a woman to save him. She would wake up with a start only to do it all over again when she dozed off. So finally, she had given up, leaving her quarters to offer her help to engineering. She had spent the night replicating and replacing burnt out transtators. It wasn't exciting work, but it kept her busy and moving around.

When morning came, she was dressed and waiting in the transporter room for the others to arrive. She really didn't want to go back down there, but she knew she had to. The doctor was counting on them. She wasn't quite sure how, but she had decided yesterday that he was still alive. It gave her the strength to lie to that man, even if it didn't assuage her conscience for doing so.

The captain and Major Kira were there to see them off as usual. "Get the information and then get back," Sisko ordered. "Try not to look at them."

The away team was quiet. None of them wanted to talk. They were trying to prepare themselves for another walk through the ghetto.

"Ready for transport," Dax finally said. The transporter took them immediately, depositing them in the same alley from which they had departed the day before. "I'm supposed to meet him alone by the pharmacy," Thomas whispered, not looking at either of them.

"We'll work on the _Judenrat_," Dax said. "Meet us there when you have it. And be careful, Ensign."

Thomas nodded and took a deep breath before heading out. A few Jews were walking by and they stepped out into the street, keeping a distance of at least two meters away from her. Others saw her and hurried away back into the dilapidated buildings that served as their dwellings. Others stayed right where they were, begging on the street or looking back at her with unrestrained fear and loathing. It took a lot of energy and conscious effort not to show her sympathy for them and abhorrence of their plight. Some showed no emotion at all. They were the dead.

The stench from them, from rotten food, and from sewage made her nauseous, but she continued on. Her stomach ached with anxiety. Lying to the man was harder than even feigning hatred for the ghetto's inhabitants. As she walked past them, even those dying of hunger, moaning on the sidewalks, she felt a distance from them. They were faceless people. The man though, the one that had been brave enough to ask her for help, was real. He spoke to her. He had even touched her sleeve. She didn't know what to tell him. She only hoped he had the information with him, so that she could leave as quickly as possible.

He was waiting for her. He stood by the door to the pharmacy, tugging absently on his beard. He saw her and stepped inside before she had even crossed the street. Thomas looked to see if anyone had noticed. She didn't want the man to get into trouble for meeting with her. She felt guilty enough for lying to him.

The large, heavy, glass door squeaked when she opened it. The room was dark inside. There was no electricity and the windows were covered to keep out the drafts. The only light in the main room was that which streamed in through the door. There was a woman behind the counter. She looked up suspiciously, but then nodded, tilting her head to one side. Thomas followed the movement with her eyes. A small hallway led off behind the counter. The glass door opened behind her and another man entered. He saw the uniform Thomas was wearing and turned right around to leave. She let him go and stepped behind the counter into the hallway.

She did have a thought that this might be a trap. She was alone now. The man had lured her off the street into a darkened building. They could kill her easily, hide her body. The Germans wouldn't even know, and they'd have a least a little revenge. Still she had to take the chance.

The man was waiting there and he motioned her into one of the rooms that lined the corridor. "I think I have the information you need," he told her. He took a piece of paper from his pocket. His hands shook as he held it out to her.

She reached out to take a hold of it, but the man didn't let go. "How will you save my family?"

* * *

"How can we find this information, _Herr Oberscharführer?_" one of the members asked. "You do not know the date of the transport or where it was going. We need more information if we're to find the information that you require."

Novak sighed, convinced the old man before him was merely stalling for time. Passive resistance. He admired it, but it was annoying when he was on the receiving end. "We can't give you any more information without knowing the transport number." Thomas had been gone now for well over an hour, and Novak was beginning to worry about her. She was a trained Starfleet officer and could probably take care of herself against these half-starved, emaciated ghetto residents. But the delay could simply mean that she hadn't gotten the information they needed. And if that were true, he had to get it from the _Judenrat_.

"There have been many transports, _Herr Oberscharfürher_."

"This one probably left here between February 6th and February 8th," Novak repeated. "Surely you can tell me the numbers of all the transports on those days?"

"We will try to find this information, of course, _Herr Oberscharführer_." And try they did, or at least they made a good show of it. Novak wondered if they were trying to protect someone, someone who was on one of the transports.

Suddenly the door burst open behind them. "_Herr Oberscharführer!_"

It was Thomas. Novak glared once more at the man he'd been dealing with and met her at the door.

"_Wir müssen gehen_," she said plainly. __

We have to go. It meant she had the information. They didn't need the _Judenrat_ anymore. But then, they couldn't just turn around and leave either. Novak turned back to look at the man. He and several others were just staring at them. Then again, as Thomas had said, they _were_ SS. They could do what they wanted. Novak caught Dax's eyes and tilted his head toward the door. "I'll be back in five minutes," he threatened the man, "and I'll want that information."

He turned back to the door and stepped outside taking Thomas by the arm as he did so. Dax followed quickly. He had no intention of returning in five minutes or even five hours. They had the information. It was time to get back to the ship and see what it could tell them.

As they walked back to the alley, Novak noticed a man following them. He stayed a good distance back and tucked himself into doorways in order to appear inconspicuous, but he was still too close for transport. He was still behind them as they neared the alley. They'd have to go right out the gate.

Thomas was watching him. She turned her head back to see what he was looking at. She stiffened a bit and then nodded to the man. Then she pointed to the alley. Novak took one more look behind him. The man was gone.

* * *

Once safely out of sight, Dax called for transport. Nothing happened. She removed the badge from inside her coat and tried again. "Dax to _Defiant_." When there was still no answer, she put the badge away. She felt her chest tighten. She hated this place and this time. But she knew she couldn't panic. Nor should she. The worst of the _Defiant_'s problems were over. There was no more sabotage, just repairs and glitches. And that's probably what this was. Just a glitch.

She looked at her away team, and for the first time she felt like she belonged on this mission. Both of them covered it well, but she could see the panic just beneath the surface of their expressions. They may have known more about the history or the language, but she was their superior officer and they looked to her for guidance. "They probably just lost communications while they were working on the warp core. Power surge. They'll have it fixed soon. I don't know about the two of you, but I don't want to wait around here for them to fix it. I would assume our next step is back in Berlin?"

There was a moment's hesitation and then both Novak and Thomas regained their composure. Thomas especially. "Yes, sir," Thomas answered. "We'll need Eichmann's office." She handed Dax a folded piece of worn paper. "The _Reichssicherheithauptamt_ or something along those lines. They coordinated all the transports." It was good to see her think again. Dax could tell that, until recently, she had felt just as useless as the Trill. This had all been Novak's game.

Dax looked at the paper Thomas had given her. It contained only numbers. Some of them Dax could guess were dates, since the last digits in the set were "43." But it seemed to her the months were wrong. At first glance, Dax would have put them in August or September, but then she noticed the middle number was the same for all of them. The day and the month were transposed. It was not June 2, but February 6. The rest of the figures on the paper must have represented transports and possibly the number of people on each train. The stardate Bashir had marked on his comm badge fell neatly within the range of dates on the page. This was exactly what they had come for.

"Good work, Ensign." She noticed, though, the downward cast of Thomas's eyes. She probably felt guilty for her method of acquiring it. Dax decided it was best that neither of them dwelt on it. They had a job to do. "Well, I guess we'll just have to take the old-fashioned route. How can we get to Berlin from here?"

"Leaving the ghetto won't be hard," Novak supplied. "Not for us."

"We should be able to catch a train from outside," Thomas added.

"Let's go then," Dax ordered. "Lead the way, Lieutenant."

* * *

O'Brien cursed and held his hand to the top of his head. Then he regretted it and hoped the captain hadn't heard.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," a deep voice said from behind him.

He had heard. O'Brien sighed and slid backwards out of the conduit. "We completely blew out the sensors."

Sisko didn't look pleased. "How long, Chief?"

"Well, it's not as bad as it sounds. We could have it up in a day and a half."

Sisko fell back into an empty chair behind him. "A day and a half?"

"It's fixable," O'Brien offered as consolation. "Might be better than before, but we'll need to replicate the parts."

Sisko looked up at him. He didn't say anything, but the raised eyebrows told him that the captain was waiting for the punchline.

"We also lost the replicators."

Sisko rubbed his forehead with one hand and sighed. "Can we contact the away team?"

O'Brien took a deep breath. "Well, there's that, too."

"Is there anything we didn't lose?"

O'Brien didn't like the captain's tone, but he chalked it up to stress and fatigue. He also understood. He rather felt that way himself. "We still have the transporter."

"But we can't lock onto anything without the sensors." Sisko stood. "Chief," he said as if he were about to confide a secret, "we're supposed to be fixing the _Defiant_, not breaking her." __

It's not exactly my fault, sir, O'Brien thought. But he knew better than to say it. "Yes, sir." The captain left and O'Brien stretched, muttering to himself. The day had started off well enough, but it was ending in near disaster. His shift ended in three hours. But he knew he wouldn't leave until he could get at least one of the systems back online. This ship had lost enough crewmen already.

If he knew Dax though, she'd be continuing with the mission. He had seen her at dinner the day before. She had confided to him that she didn't know why Sisko had chosen her for the away team. While Thomas was only an ensign, Novak had proven quite capable of leading the mission. Most often Dax merely stood behind him, oblivious to what was being said by the others. But O'Brien knew that the captain counted on her. That was why he had sent her. She could think fast to find a way out of a problem. And she had more than enough experience in dealing with foreign cultures and environments. Cut off from the ship, the lieutenant might decide to hole up until contact was reestablished. Dax would look for Julian.

* * *

Novak had been right. Leaving the ghetto had not been a problem. At the sight of their uniforms, the gate had been opened. The guards even saluted, their arms held out straight, as the three walked past. Transportation was just as easy. They had enough money left over from their lunch that day in Berlin to buy three train fares back to the German capital by way of Prague. It was not the most direct route, but it was the best they could do under the circumstances. Fewer trains were running now that there was a war on, the cashier had explained.

Dax was surprised by the comfort of the train. They had been given a private compartment and were treated with the utmost respect by the Polish conductor. The car was heated also. But the train was slow. It was expected to arrive in Berlin on Friday afternoon. It was only Wednesday.

Novak tried to make light of it. "I hear Prague is lovely this time of year."

Thomas didn't feel his enthusiasm. "Not this year."

The locomotive was loud and shook as it moved. Dax found it disturbing and didn't know how the people of this time had managed. It had been two hours since they had lost contact with the ship, and since they were in a compartment to themselves, she thought it safe to try again. The result was the same though. The signal seemed to open. The badge chirped its usual welcome, but met only silence on the other end. As disheartening as it was, Dax was relieved. The fact that a signal was established was a good sign that the damage to the _Defiant_'s comm system was only superficial.

To pass the time, Dax asked Novak about his grandmother and watched the land roll by the window. She thought it ironic how peaceful the countryside looked considering the war and genocide raging so close by. Still, trees knew nothing of war.

Novak welcomed the chance to tell how he learned German. It was obvious that his grandmother and his times with her were very special to him. Dax could empathize. She remembered Audrid's grandchildren and how happy they had made her. She had spoiled them, much to the mock chagrin of their parents. She remembered with regret Torias's long talks out under the stars with Nalani of the plans they had for growing old together. Jadzia remembered also her own grandparents and how proud they had been at her graduation from Starfleet Academy and even more so on the day of her joining.

Toward evening her stomach growled, so she and Novak had set out to find the dining car. Thomas hadn't joined them. She said she'd eat in the morning. She wasn't hungry. The meal had been simple, due in part to the war and in part to finances. Dax had thought it best to conserve their remaining money. While she was sure that O'Brien would have communications back up soon, she didn't know if that would be before breakfast in the morning. They might have to buy several meals. Still the meal was quite good and was served on elegant dishes.

Dax saved some bread and marmalade for Thomas. None of them had eaten since they had left the _Defiant_. She had to be hungry despite her admission to the contrary. Dax was a little worried. Thomas had seemed alright going into the mission, but the ghetto had been hard on her. It had been hard on all of them. But she had hardly spoken since her meeting with the man to get the transport information. She only spoke when it pertained to the mission, to duty. All other times she sat in the corner, staring silently out the window. She hadn't even taken off her coat.

The compartment door was locked as ordered when they reached it, but Thomas didn't answer when they knocked. Dax didn't want to have to arouse the conductor's attention. The less contact they had with the people of this time the better. Luckily she still had a few tools in her pocket. It was only a few seconds before she heard the lock give way. She froze though when the door slid open.

Novak reacted faster, pushing past her into the little compartment where Thomas was swinging from the ceiling.

Dax moved quickly, shutting the door behind her so no one would notice the commotion. Novak grabbed the young woman's legs and lifted her, releasing the strain on the scarf around her neck. Dax had her phaser already, though she didn't quite remember removing it from her inside pocket. She fired at the scarf just where it met the ceiling, and Thomas dropped into Novak's arms.

There wasn't room to lay her on the seats, so he set her gently on the floor and frantically loosened the scarf. He touched her neck, holding his own breath. "I've got a pulse!"

But the ensign wasn't breathing. "Get the conductor," Dax ordered, sliding up to sit beside her. "I'll stay."

Novak hesitated.

"I can't speak to him, Lieutenant. We'll need to get her to a hospital."

That was enough. Novak moved, pushing himself up and out the door.

Dax started CPR, hoping she remembered how to do it with humans. She needed Julian. And she needed Thomas to find Julian. Thomas was turning blue, or at least it looked that way in the dim light of the compartment's lamp. Dax blew another breath into her mouth and counted to four. She hoped it was four. She blew again and Thomas coughed.

Dax sat back and held her hand in front of Thomas's mouth. She felt air. She was breathing. Dax loosened her clothing and waited for the conductor to return. They would need a hospital.

* * *

Josef Rosen stood just inside the darkened pharmacy staring out into the night beyond his window. She had said she would come. He checked his watch again, only five minutes had passed since he'd last removed it from his pocket. She was late. She had said to be ready at eight o'clock. She would meet them here and take them out of the ghetto. His wife had agreed only reluctantly. "You can't trust the SS," she had told him. But there had been something different about this one. Something in her eyes. He had taken a chance.

His wife, from her position on the floor beside the window, stared blindly at the pharmacy counter. Their Ana was asleep beside her, with her head in her mother's lap. His wife stroked the girl's hair absently. Josef could see her hand shaking. She was afraid that he had been wrong.

But he had been so sure he was right. Still, forty minutes? She wouldn't be late by forty minutes. The woman had made it clear they were to be ready precisely at eight. They were to take nothing with them, no baggage, only the clothes they wore. They had been ready for her by half past seven. Now it was nearly nine, and she hadn't come.

* * *

Dax listened, trying to hear Thomas's breath through the rumblings of the train. It was there, but it was weak and raspy. Dax couldn't understand. She'd worked with Thomas before. She hadn't seemed the type to attempt suicide. Dax admitted the ensign had been depressed, especially since they left the ghetto, but still, killing herself was drastic. As upset as she was, she had still been fervent in her desire to help find the doctor. That was why she had risked meeting the man in the first place.

Thomas's head lay tilted to one side. Dax thought a pillow would be more comfortable for the ensign than the floor, but she knew she needed to keep the airway open. A pillow would only serve to constrict it, however slightly. Still her neck bent sideways toward her shoulder wasn't helping her breath either.

Very gently, realizing that Thomas might have a neck injury as well, Dax placed her hand beneath the ensign's neck and slowly tilted her head back up straight. When she pulled her hand away though, she noticed the blood. There wasn't much of it, just a small red stain on the tips of her first two fingers. The scarf was soft. It wouldn't have cut her. Dax lifted Thomas's head a few centimeters above the floor and felt on the carpet for a tack or loose nail. Nothing. So why was she bleeding?

Dax rolled Thomas over toward her, making sure that she supported her head. She listened carefully for footsteps outside the compartment. When she heard none, she took out her tricorder and scanned the back of the ensign's head. There was a short cut which broke the skin just where Jadzia had held her. The area surrounding the cut was bruised. A hairline fracture was evident at the base of her skull.

The door had been locked. Thomas had been alone in the room. Dax was certain there was no way that Thomas could have injured herself in that manner. Someone had hit her. But the door had been locked. How could someone have hit her, hung her from the ceiling and left, locking the door behind him? The door locked from the inside, and only the conductor could open it from the corridor.

And Novak was going to get the conductor.

Footsteps. They were coming. Dax stood, putting away the tricorder. She had left her phaser sitting on the seat. She picked it up now and held it behind her back, using her thumb to set it to stun.

The conductor entered first, with Novak just behind. Novak looked hurried but otherwise well. The conductor glanced down at Thomas's prone form. He showed no surprise. Dax looked past them into the corridor. She waited until Novak was past the doorway so that he could close the door. "Catch him," she said.

The conductor looked up in confusion. His bushy eyebrows nearly met in the middle. They spread apart again in surprise as Dax shot him. The flash of light was short and Novak caught the man before he could fall on Thomas. Dax took his arms and steered the portly man to one of the seats. He fell over sideways when they set him down.

Novak turned and shut the door. "What was that for?" he asked quickly. "Is she--"

"She's breathing," Dax assured him. "She didn't hang herself. Someone hit her. Someone who could lock the door on his way out."

Novak looked to the conductor whose arm had fallen off the edge of the seat and was waving with the movement of the train. "Him? But he couldn't have hanged her. How could he hold her and tie her up there?"

"Maybe he had help." Dax was already going through the man's pockets.

"Why?"

"Look at what we're wearing." Dax held up the tool he used to punch the tickets. "We're the bad guys, remember?"

Novak nodded. "The worst. So now what?"

Dax used her tricorder again. A tiny spot of blood marred the tool. The conductor had attacked her. But Novak was right. He would have needed help to tie her to the ceiling. "Is the next compartment free?"

Novak shrugged but opened the door. He was out of her sight for only a few seconds before he returned. "Yes."

"Put him inside and shut the door. I'm going to try the ship again."

Novak was tall and strong, a security officer. He handled the man easily, lifting him off the seat. There wasn't enough room in either the doorway or the compartment to carry him, so Novak held him with a bear hug around the torso, letting his feet drag on the ground. He stuck his head out behind him first, checking to see the corridor was clear.

"Dax to _Defiant_."

"It's about time you called, Old Man."

Dax sighed and felt the tension fall away from her shoulders. "Benjamin, we have the transport number, well, several numbers, but it's bound to be one of them. But I need you transport Ensign Thomas back to the _Defiant_."

She had been checking on Thomas again. Her pulse was steady but weak, and she was still breathing on her own. Dax heard a sound behind her and swung around, phaser ready before Novak could even get the door shut.

"Just me, Commander," he said, hands raised.

Dax lowered her phaser.

"Is something wrong, Dax?" Sisko asked.

"She's hurt, Benjamin," she explained. "Skull fracture, possible concussion or contusion. I don't know. They tried to hang her."

"Hang? Who?"

"The Poles, I guess." The tension was returning to her shoulders. Sisko should have already ordered the transport. "Benjamin?"

"We lost the sensors, Old Man. We can't even locate you, right now. We're working on it. Where are you?"

Dax couldn't answer. No transporter. Ordinarily, this wouldn't be too much of a problem. They would just continue on their way with surface travel. But this was different. Thomas needed medical attention. This was 1943! What would they do to her here?

"On a train, I think we're still in Poland," Novak answered for her. "We're on our way to Berlin. We'll pass through Prague."

"Check in with us every thirty minutes." The captain sounded tired. "We'll let you know as soon as we can transport. I'll get a nurse to talk to you."

"Benjamin, wait!" Dax exclaimed. "No sensors, but the transporter is fine, right?"

"Yes, what do you have in mind, Old Man?"

"You should be able to use the comm signal to locate us. We have three comm badges here, and I can configure my tricorder to give off a radio signal as well. If we set them around her--"

"We should be able to get a lock. We'll probably get the floor under her as well."

"So we'll step around the hole," Dax countered. "We'll risk it." Dax nodded to Novak who activated his comm badge. Dax set hers to the right of Ensign Thomas's head, while Novak set his at her feet. He took Thomas's next, from inside her jacket, and placed it just opposite his own.

"It still won't work, Old Man," Sisko pointed out. "The signals are moving. We can't get a stable fix."

"So we'll stop the train." She looked up at Novak. "Shouldn't be too hard, should it?"

"For the bad guys? Nah." He gave her a smile and then started for the door.

"Three minutes, Lieutenant," Dax called after him. "Then start it up again. We still have to get to Berlin."

He nodded. "Be careful, Commander. There's still one out there."

"At least."

Then he was gone. Dax guessed it would take him at least five minutes to get to the front of the train. She already had the back off the tricorder. She would have it set up before he reached the engineer.

"We could try to beam you all up," Sisko suggested.

"No, you couldn't get us back down again. At least this way we're making progress. Got it!" She set the tricorder down to the near Thomas's left temple.

Suddenly the train screeched and Dax lurched forward. She brought her hand up just in time to shield her face from hitting the seat across from her. She reached for Thomas, trying to keep her head still while the train whined to a stop. There was turmoil out in the corridors. Dax eased Thomas's head back to the floor and stood up. She locked the door and made sure she was out of the line between the two comm badges on her side of the ensign.

"We've got her, Dax," Sisko said. "We'll only be able to leave one of the badges. Good luck. Keep in touch. Sisko out."

Dax nodded even though she knew he couldn't see. She watched as the familiar sparkle of the transporter beam filled the space marked out by the four signals. It glowed brighter, taking Thomas with it until it faded, leaving the floor intact, if uncarpeted. One shiny triangle of metal gleamed up from the floor. Dax picked it up and tucked it inside her coat. She unlocked the door, keeping her hand on her phaser, and waited for Novak to return.

* * *

The changeling watched him standing there. He looked so much like the others now despite the physical differences like height and hair. It had even taken her a few minutes to pick him out. His face was ashen--a difficult thing with his dark complexion. But she had accomplished it. His eyes never lifted from the ground except when he looked at the fence or the stars. He rarely even blinked. His body was frail, emaciated from hunger. His shoulders were hunched, from fatigue and pain, no doubt. He no longer spoke to anyone. He didn't even look at them. In fact, he looked like the worst of them, the ones they called Muselmen or Muslims, the ones who died soon. He was beginning to pay for the sins of his kind. He still had a long way to go.

She thought for a moment that she'd been too hard on him. He'd be dead soon. Then she would be stuck on this miserable planet populated only by solids. He was, at the very least, a link to her time, someone who knew what she was. She could be herself with him. And she could punish him for his enmity to her people. Without him she would have nothing to do. Besides, these few weeks had hardly accounted for the slaughter of her people. No amount of time ever would. He would stay and live until she decided it was enough.

She could almost assure that, too. Almost. She could get him out of selections and prevent his being sent to the gas. She bribed the other guards that dealt with him. She didn't need the money that Heiler was given as pay, nor the food. The others were glad to have both. They would leave _der Engländer_ to her. The rest was up to Bashir. Would he starve to death? Or would he throw himself on the fence like that child he was with in quarantine? He could cheat her, either way.

She didn't think he'd go for the fence. He hadn't yet. It had been two days since she had broken him. She was sure he'd never been so close to killing himself before in his short, insignificant life. She had been surprised how easy it had been once the idea came to her. She had reveled in it that day, the emptiness that had come to his eyes, the bowing of his head. She could have thought of it sooner. All that she had needed to break him had been in his psychographic profile. All of her people knew Bashir, knew what he was capable of and what his weaknesses were. But forty-six deaths demanded more than a quick death or loss of self. The punished should know what he is losing, should feel it ripped from his grasp.

An hour already. He was still on his feet. She was always astonished that he didn't fall. He swayed uncertainly and his body quivered from the cold, but he remained standing. No matter his condition, he never fell during roll call. He only fell when someone hit him. And that was more often now. He walked slower. He worked slower. His injuries made him clumsy. Everything about him seemed to invite abuse.

Heiler stomped one of his feet against the mushy ground and brown mud splashed up on his boot. Someone was missing. They would count again. It bored her. There was nothing to do during roll call except count the pitiful solids. And it annoyed her. Work like that was done by the Jem'Hadar or the Vorta, not by the Founders. She kept hoping Bashir would fall, or stumble forward, or cough, anything. But it was always one of the others, solids who meant nothing to her, that merited punishment at roll call. Bashir never so much as twitched.

* * *

Early Friday morning, the train crossed the Czech border and entered Germany. A soldier, checking for contraband or unauthorized persons or something, entered the train, waking up each of the passengers. The conductor brought him to Dax and Novak's compartment. Dax smiled at him as Novak said hello. He had woken up quite confused the day before. He was still confused, wondering where the third passenger had gone and why there was no longer any carpet in the compartment.

The soldier with him paid no attention. He saluted stiffly, refusing to lower his arm until Novak responded in kind. He checked their papers, forged carefully by O'Brien and the mess hall's replicator. Satisfied, he saluted again, clicking his heels together. Then he turned sharply back toward the corridor to bother the rest of the sleeping passengers.

"How much farther is Berlin?" Dax asked after she was sure their former visitors couldn't hear.

"It shouldn't be too far," Novak answered, "but then, this trip shouldn't have taken two days already. It would have been a lot shorter if we'd just headed due west instead of circling around to the south."

"Well, there's not much we can do about it now," Dax admitted. "The question is, what do we do once we get to Berlin? What do we know about this Eichmann?"

"Now that Thomas has more time on her hands, she was kind enough to send us a summary while you were sleeping." He held out a PADD to her.

Dax took it. "How is she doing anyway?" she asked as she activated the display.

"She said she doesn't remember any of it," Novak relayed. "They must have hit her pretty good. Nurses say it's a concussion. She still can't talk very well. She wrote everything out and the nurse passed it along."

"At least she'll be alright." Dax was relieved. They still needed her on this mission. She started reading the notes Thomas had sent.

Eichmann was a lieutenant-colonel in the Gestapo and head of the Jewish Division of that organization. He was also a member of the SS. He was in charge of organizing the transports of all the Jews of Europe to the gas chambers of the death camps. Apparently, he fulfilled his duty efficiently. In the next year, he would manage to transport almost all of Hungary's Jews to their deaths in Auschwitz. Over 400,000 in only a few weeks. He almost got away with it, too. After the war, he escaped to Argentina where he hid for several years. _A bit of poetic justice, though_, Thomas wrote, _he was later kidnapped by the Israeli secret service, and put on trial. _He was sentenced to death.

"Sounds like a lovely man," Dax noted wryly. "We probably won't have to see him though for the information. Hopefully a clerk can help us."

"I suppose we'll be staying in SS uniform for this," Novak said. "We can't exactly change back to Gestapo, can we?"

"Not without the sensors working properly," Dax hinted. Novak had been the last to speak with the ship.

"Chief thinks we'll have it by nightfall," he offered.

"Nightfall?" she asked. "We have to stay in Berlin all day?"

"Looks that way. Or," he suggested, "we could start out for whatever camp it came from. They could always transport us later."

Dax shook her head. "I think we'll need to confer with Thomas and the captain before we go to the camp. It may take more than two of us to find him in one of those. Thomas said some of them had thousands of prisoners."

Novak yawned and Dax looked out the window. It was still quite dark out. The train was moving faster now. It would still be early when they reached Berlin.

* * *

Julian Bashir stared forward. Max sat beside him, forcing the bread into his hands. Julian nibbled it absently. He was intent on watching the man across the courtyard. The man was slowly pacing from one end of his barracks to the other. He had no shoes, no pants. But he didn't seem cold. He didn't seem to care. He simply shuffled his feet before him, moving methodically, almost like a robot. Muselman. That's what men like him were called. Men like Bashir.

He'd heard the others say it as they pointed to him or used his new nickname, "_Herr Engländer_." And they were right. To a point. Muselmen had given up. They were no longer living, just moving around, waiting to die. The man across the way wasn't even eating as Max was forcing him to do.

But there was one major difference between them, that man across the courtyard and Bashir. That man was no longer thinking. Bashir was. Constantly. His thoughts weren't always clear and unclouded. Mostly he just remembered. He remembered every detail of this place. Every pain, every torment, every face of a dying friend or stranger and those who did the killing. And he remembered other things, things from before.

At first he had put them out of his mind. They were little things. He had had bigger things to worry about. But now, those little things seemed precious to him, more so than the bread Max prodded him with every morning and night. He remembered washing his hands with soap and warm water, sleeping on a mattress, sitting on a chair, changing his clothes in the morning, drinking a glass of cold water. He remembered these things and missed them. They filled up the last few spaces that had been free of sadness and despair.

He remembered the _Defiant_ and her crew. They visited him sometimes as they had his first night in the dark cell. But they offered him no help. They only reminded him of what he couldn't have. He didn't want them to come. He didn't want any of the memories anymore. He wanted to be like that man across the courtyard. He wanted to stop thinking.

It was time for _Appell_. Bashir rose, ignoring the pain. All life was pain now. More here or less there hardly mattered. Nothing mattered if it didn't offer him a way out of this place or an end to his thoughts, the constant reminders of what he didn't have, what he couldn't have. __

Appell proved to be mercifully short that morning. All prisoners were accounted for. The kommandos lined up and headed for their various work sites within an hour. Heiler was waiting for him as usual, marching alongside the column so that she could torment him as they went. "There will be a selection today," the man's voice taunted. The other prisoners around Bashir glanced over without turning their heads. Seeing who it was, and not understanding the language, they soon lost interest. "In the hospital," Heiler continued. She smiled one of her cold, black smiles and then stopped, letting Bashir's row of the kommando get ahead of her.

* * *

Things seemed to be running much smoother this time. The personnel of the Reich Security Main Office were much more accommodating than those of the Economic Administration. However, bureaucracy was still bureaucracy, and Dax found herself fighting back yawns as she sat waiting for Novak to finish talking with the Germans. She missed Thomas's input even more. It was much easier when she had Thomas's little notebook to read telling her at least some of what was happening. As it was she had to wait until Novak had a chance to speak to her alone.

It still took a few hours to find the appropriate department in the huge building, even though it seemed to Novak and herself to be a simple request. They had transport numbers from Bialystok, Poland. They simply needed to know the destinations for those transports. Dax hoped they all went to the same place. It would make it much easier to find Bashir. The _Defiant_ simply didn't have enough crew left to search more than one camp. If the camps were as big as Thomas said they were, Dax wasn't even sure they would have enough people to search any of them.

Dax's stomach growled, reminding her of the time. She'd had a roll for breakfast on the train with some juice to wash it down. What she needed now was a more substantial lunch. Novak was speaking to a clerk. He was nodding his head, and his voice didn't sound agitated. It seemed like a good sign. He nodded once more and turned away. He took Dax by the arm and gently led her back into the hallway.

He released her arm, and after checking that they were alone, he smiled. "The clerk's going to take care of it. He's going to look up the information. We can go to lunch and come back for it in two hours."

"Two hours? Why so long?" Dax was disappointed that there was yet another delay.

"No computers," Novak shrugged. "He's got to actually look through the records. It could take awhile."

Dax sighed, but nodded. "To lunch then. Do you think we can find that little restaurant we were in before?"

"It's possible," Novak replied. "They did send us a map." He tapped his pocket where the PADD was stashed. "You know, Commander," he said as they headed for the stairs, "I should teach you a little German while we're here."

* * *

Bashir could see that she was telling the truth. Each day, it seemed, the large can became heavier and its swill less appetizing. He rarely made it into line in time to receive it anymore even though the _kapo_ regularly sent him to fetch it. He didn't try. He had forgotten how to hear the protests of his stomach. Starvation was dulling his hearing anyway. As he set the can down again, much to the annoyance of his partner in this endeavor, he looked over at the hospital. The scene was much as it had been the day Henri was selected.

It was snowing, or sleeting really. The rain came down in frozen sheets adding to the misery of the muddy road. Bashir's partner cursed at him in some language, Dutch perhaps, probably for being too slow or for stopping so often. Bashir didn't care. There was little he could do about it. He hadn't the strength to carry the can for more than a few steps before he had to set it down again. It was the other voice that caught his attention.

"You'll get to the middle of the line today," she ordered. "And you will eat the soup. I'll dish it out myself. You'll eat all of it or I'll kill someone else."

Bashir turned his head, but saw only the other prisoner on the other side of the can. The changeling was still at the work site.

"Did you think I couldn't do a prisoner?" Whaley's voice emitted from the prisoner's mouth. "Really you should pay better attention. This one died during roll call. It was rather a trick to get his uniform. I couldn't just replace it. We changelings don't give off odors, you know. I'd need to smell like one of you, which, I understand, is pretty bad."

Bashir froze, lowering his eyes to the can and watched the steam slipping out from underneath the lid.

"You're not much for conversation anymore, are you?" she asked. "I've been watching you. You don't eat anymore, not much anyway. Only what they make you eat. You don't speak to anyone. You walk around like you're in a daze. You work, but that's all you do." She gestured that he should pick up the can again. This time she managed to lift most of the weight herself, freeing Bashir from his part of the burden. How she did it from the one handle, he didn't know. He was more curious about why she did it. "I've seen you staring at the fence," she continued. "Thinking of ending it all, are we?"

Bashir stared straight ahead as they walked. He wouldn't answer her. He had given up speaking. It only made things worse.

"Well," the changeling went on, ignoring his silence, "I won't have it. Have you seen what they do when someone escapes? They kill ten others at random, slowly in Block 11. If you kill yourself, I'll see that as escape. And I'll kill twenty. Do you understand me?" She waited for a reply that Bashir wouldn't give. He did understand what she was saying. But he didn't understand her. "Answer!"

Bashir nodded. The can stopped moving again. Some of the soup sloshed over the side when she set it down. It sank down a few centimeters into the mud.

"Let me see your hand," she said. Her voice had a different quality to it. Where she had been cold before, she almost sounded sympathetic. Still, he knew which hand she was referring to, and he didn't want to let her see it.

But she was a changeling, and she was not limited by the length of the dead prisoner's arms. Her left arm stretched outward, taking hold of his right and spinning him around until he faced her. Her other hand took hold of his wrist. He stiffened as she touched him and closed his eyes, expecting the pain. But her grasp was gentle and she lifted the hand carefully.

She unwrapped the worn and filthy bandage that covered it, the same one that had come from Vláďa's extra shirt so many weeks before. She looked at it for a few moments. "It's becoming infected," she pointed out. Bashir already knew that. "Go to the hospital after roll call tonight."

Bashir thought about what he had just seen at the hospital and what it had been like the night they'd taken Henri there. He would likely never get through the lines, and even if he did, there was nothing the doctors could do for him. The bones in his hand were crushed. They couldn't be set any more than they already were. The best they could do, given their equipment and the century, was amputate it. And, of course, a one-armed man couldn't work.

"I'll take you there myself," the changeling said, releasing his hand. She wadded up the bandage and placed it in his other hand. "You wrap it. I'll carry the soup."

Bashir obeyed, carefully wrapping his hand as they walked, at the same time, he tried not to slip and fall in the mud. He was watching his hand now, rather than the road. Nothing was clear to him as they walked. One minute, she was threatening, tormenting, another she was almost kind. But she wasn't the only one he didn't understand. He also didn't understand himself, despite the hours of thinking he'd done on the subject in the three days since the incident. He had thought of the fence. It would be a quick end, so quick that he wouldn't even feel the pain of the thousands of volts of electricity coursing through his body. He'd even stood not ten feet from it when the guards weren't looking. But he hadn't stepped closer. His legs had refused the movement. He felt life was no longer possible, but he couldn't bring himself to end it.

* * *

It was nearly 1600 hours before the sensors came back online. O'Brien had been working non-stop to get them fixed, stopping only to sleep when he was too exhausted to see. The damage had been worse than he had thought. A whole power relay had been blown out and had to be replaced. It was a slow process. He would have rerouted power from other areas, but all non-essential systems were already shut down. The remaining crewmembers had been consolidated in the middle of the ship so they could shut down life support in the unused quarters.

But now the relay was replaced, the sensors were online, and O'Brien could finally go to sleep. He called the captain to give him the news and then signed himself out for the next eight hours. It almost seemed unfair that his work hadn't earned him at least a day off, but no one was getting a day off on this trip. Besides, they were closer now to finding Julian, and he wanted to know how the search was progressing.

* * *

The call came in almost instantly. Sisko sighed when he heard it. He had been worried that the signal he'd sent might have been heard by some of the Germans. But Dax answered without even whispering, though she did keep her voice quiet. "It's good to hear from you, Benjamin. At least I hope it's good."

"It is, Old Man," Sisko reported happily. "We can beam you back up whenever you're ready. Have you made any progress."

"Progress is a relative term, Benjamin." He could hear the smile in her voice. "We're having lunch. We're supposed to return to the Security Headquarters in half an hour to retrieve the information. This should tell us what we need to know though."

"Good, glad to hear it."

"Benjamin, how is Ensign Thomas doing?"

"She'll be fine, Dax," Sisko assured his friend. "Her voice is a little raspy, but she's anxious to get back down there."

"Novak said she doesn't remember."

"No, she doesn't. And I didn't see it as necessary to remind her." Thomas didn't remember the attack. But she also didn't remember the events directly leading up to it. She didn't seem to remember the promise she had made to the councilman. She had been deeply depressed when she had last left the ship. Sisko had worried at first, once she was beamed back up, that Dax had been wrong, that Thomas had hung herself.

She was too important to the team. Now, more than ever, they'd need her knowledge of the time period. Once they got the information from the Security Headquarters, each destination would have to be searched. The destinations were concentration camps. Sisko couldn't just send his people into them blindly. They'd need to be briefed on what they would experience and how to find Bashir without drawing attention to themselves. Sisko needed her to do that. He didn't know enough about the camps, and he wagered that Bashir didn't have the time for him to research it through the computer.

Dax interrupted his thoughts. "Well, I'm really glad you called, Benjamin. Lunch was not in our budget."

Sisko smiled. "You owe me one, Old Man." He called over to the nearest crewmember with orders to replicate fifty marks to transport to Dax's location. "Send another comm badge, too. I want to keep a lock on both of them."

* * *

Novak was relieved about the sensors. The transporters could find them now. He was also relieved about the money. The waitress had already served their food before they realized they didn't have enough marks to pay for the meal. Thomas had had the rest of the money with her. The money and a new comm badge appeared on the chair beside them where no one else would see. Novak pocketed the badge and paid the waitress. He and Dax headed back to the RSHA building to get the information the clerk would have ready for them.

Novak decided he preferred the RSHA to the Economics Administration, if only for the level of cooperation they received. No one had feared them when they walked in the door. No one had tried to hide or run away. It had still taken the better part of the day to find the correct clerk to help them, but no one had intentionally obstructed them along the way. But in a way, all that also made him sick. They weren't scared of him or his uniform. He was wearing the uniform of a monster, and they found it commonplace.

They knew just where to go this time, and he and Dax arrived at the clerk's desk exactly two hours after they had left. The man looked busy, he didn't even notice that two SS officers were standing over his desk. Novak had to clear his throat to get his attention. The man jumped out his chair, tossing his right arm out in the Nazi salute, just as he had before lunch. "_Heil Hitler!_" he said by way of greeting.

He hated to repeat it, but Novak knew he had to keep up appearances. "_Heil Hitler!_" he returned, executing the salute with a click of his jack-booted heels. "We've returned for the information on the Bialystok transports."

The man stared at him, his mouth hanging open. He didn't say anything at first, but looked back and forth between Novak and Dax. He stopped on Dax and closed his mouth abruptly. "You're back?"

"Yes," Novak confirmed, trying to remain patient. "Were you able to find the information?"

"Yes, yes, oh yes," the man assured him. "That was no problem, really, it was only a few weeks ago, maybe a month. But I thought you wanted it sent to you."

"Sent?" Novak realized now that he had been hasty in his judgment. This had every potential to be just as frustrating as the Economic Administration or the _Judenrat_ back in the ghetto. "We didn't even leave an address."

"I know," the clerk said, "I wondered why you had me send it without telling me where."

"I didn't tell you where," Novak recounted slowly, "because I didn't tell you to send it at all. You told me to return for it in two hours. So I've returned."

"But--"

Novak gave up trying to keep the condescension from his voice. "But you sent it."

"Yes."

"Just where did you send it?"

"To your office," the clerk answered timidly.

"I don't have an office," Novak countered.

The clerk looked at him quizzically. "The SS office."

The headquarters. The man had sent the information to the SS headquarters. Novak imagined the runaround he and Dax would get there, just trying to get the package from the mailroom. They didn't even know where the SS headquarters was. "I assume you still have a copy here."

"Of course," replied the clerk.

Deciding he'd had enough of the game altogether, Novak ordered, "Then find it again."

"That could take time," the man protested. "I get off work in two hours."

"Don't whine," Novak told him. "It's really rather pathetic. Find the information now."

"Okay, okay," the man resigned, "if you'll come back around four, I--"

Novak was shaking his head. "We'll wait, thank you. Go now. We'll be right here." He even helped the man out of his seat. The man graciously offered the chair to Dax and then rushed off with as much charm as he could muster.

"What just happened?" Dax whispered when the clerk had rounded the corner.

"He sent the information to our office at the SS headquarters," he explained.

"Oh, that helps," she remarked, rolling her eyes.

"I thought so."

The clerk returned an hour later with several file folders under his arm. "Here is the information you requested."

Dax rose to return his seat, but the man waved for her to stay and put the folders down in front of her. "I have an errand to run anyway. Just leave the files on my desk when you are finished. I'll put them away when I get back." He bowed to Dax and then saluted both of them before leaving the room again.

"You'd think their arms would get tired," Dax commented wryly. Then she pointed to the files. "We can replicate these."

Novak nodded. They could just look at them now and copy the relevant information now, but there might be a chance that they'd overlook something that might be important later. If they replicated them, they would have the whole file for later use. "I'll stay."

Dax smiled. "See you in a few minutes, Lieutenant." She tapped her comm badge and disappeared in a curtain of shimmering light.

* * *

"We've got the information," she announced as she stepped off the transporter pad. "We've got time to replicate it." She looked well enough if a bit haggard._ Probably from sleeping on the train_, Sisko told himself. Her spots, though very dim, were beginning to show.

Sisko turned to the transporter officer. "Take these to the mess hall and replicate them." The woman nodded and Sisko added, "These files have priority over anyone's dinner."

"Aye, sir." She took the files and headed for the door, stopping only long enough for it to open halfway.

"It's good to see you again, Old Man," Sisko said, turning his attention back to Dax. "I was beginning to worry."

"We ran into a glitch," she explained. "An inept clerk. He sent the information to our office."

"What office?"

"Exactly."

Sisko smirked. He was glad to see her sense of humor returning.

But then she became serious again and sat on the edge of the pad. "You know," she began, "they all seem like normal people. To look at most of them, you wouldn't think they were capable of what they're doing down there. But we saw signs, Benjamin, out the window of the train. Little towns with signs that said 'Judenrein'. Novak told me what it meant. Free of Jews. They'd killed or transported all their Jews."

There was no time for a reply. The door opened and the transporter officer returned carrying to short stacks of file folders. "These are the originals," she said, handing the top stack to Dax. "And these are the copies." She gave the copies to Sisko.

Dax was already back on the transporter pad. "This shouldn't take but a couple of minutes," she said. She tapped her comm badge twice, opening and closing the signal.

Novak's reply was quick. "All clear, Commander."

Sisko gave the order and she disappeared again. She reappeared with Novak almost as quickly. "Welcome back," Sisko offered. "If you're up to it, we'll take a look at those files now."

Dax spoke for both of them. "After all it took to get it, I don't think we can wait even another hour. But I would like to change clothes." Novak nodded his agreement.

"Of course," Sisko said. "But you'll probably have to put those uniforms right back on."

"That's fine, Captain," Novak replied, "but we'd rather not wear them any longer than necessary."

"Good." Sisko meant that. He hated the uniforms, too, with their death's head emblems and swastikas. "We'll meet in sickbay in twenty minutes. We'll want Ensign Thomas's input as well. I would think," he added, "that all of this just got more difficult, not less."

* * *

The changeling kept her word. As soon as roll call had ended, well into the night, Heiler had come for him. She walked quickly and Bashir was unable to keep up with her pace. She took his arm, pulling him forward through the mush and past the other prisoners. She bypassed the lines leading up to the hospital buildings, pushing anyone who got in the way. For Bashir, it was too much. Every time she moved, his back was jostled or jolted. When she brushed past someone, they invariably brushed into him. His left arm, which he had nearly learned to ignore in the last few weeks, began to flare with a bright white pain that got in the way of his eyes. As a result, he stumbled more, she pulled him harder and everything became worse. He would have fallen on the steps leading into the building if she hadn't had such a strong grip on his arm.

He was vaguely aware of the other doctors. The fatigue and hunger combined with the reintensified pain blocked out the interior of the building. His knees buckled. This time he fell. The changeling had released his right arm. A dull shadow of pain lingered there where her hand had been.

He heard Heiler speaking, as if from a distance. "_Säubere die Wunde. Ich werde in zwei Tagen wieder nach ihm sehen._" He didn't hear the doctor try and protest.


	12. Chapter 12

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Twelve**

The files were clear. For the eight most likely transports listed, there were only two destinations: Treblinka and Auschwitz. One was an extermination camp. The vast majority of any transport would be sent straight to the gas chambers. The other was the largest of all the camps, a combination of concentration and extermination. More people would be killed there than at any other camp, but there was also a large slave population.

Thomas was explaining this to the gathered crew in the mess hall. She'd been given permission to leave sickbay as long as she refrained from anything more than light duty. While she had been preparing the briefing, the senior staff was choosing possible away team members for the search. Over half of the _Defiant_'s remaining crew passed as being sufficiently Aryan to pose as SS guards in order to search for the doctor. But most of these didn't really know what they'd been volunteered for. Filling them in was Thomas's job.

It had been decided during the staff meeting that Treblinka would be searched first. It was a hard decision which had brought up a slight debate. The chances of Bashir surviving Treblinka were smaller, given the smaller percentage of people chosen for labor rather than gas. Initial selections at Auschwitz were based more on one's fitness than simply the whim of the SS, so his chances of becoming a prisoner were higher there. But the argument hinged on the matter of time. It would take only a few days to search the smaller camp with its few hundred inmates. Auschwitz had tens of thousands. If Bashir was still alive in Treblinka, he could die in the time it took to search Auschwitz. While the same could be said of his survival in Auschwitz, his chances of surviving a few days were better than his chances of surviving another week or longer.

Because Thomas wasn't sure if there were female guards at Treblinka, only men would be on the first away mission, though all the 'Aryans' were attending the briefing. Novak, with his experience in the earlier missions, would lead the first shift of four men. In the afternoon, a second shift would replace them. The camp had been mapped out and divided into sectors which the away team would search. They were given uniforms and specially modified communicators that would only translate the away team's words into German.

Thomas had dismissed them to change clothes, but when they had returned, the look was still not quite right. Not severe enough. They looked too nice despite the death's head badges on their hats. Novak and Dax helped them to look the part, while Thomas tried to teach them how to act in the presence of Jews and Germans alike. That caused a certain amount of protest. No one wanted to actually hurt someone or to shout and insult them. They sided with the victims. Some even asked why they couldn't search the camp as prisoners, pointing out that it would be easier to infiltrate their ranks if they were not dressed as their tormenters. But of course, as a prisoner, one was vulnerable to any whim of an SS officer or even a _kapo_. It was too dangerous. Being SS, with all the power and freedom and guilt that entailed was the only way to keep the away team safe.

The briefing had lasted for nearly seven hours, well into the night. By morning they were ready. Or at least, they thought they were ready. Thomas checked them over in the corridor just outside the small transporter room. Eight men, including Novak stood at attention before her. The first two shifts. Their features were familiar, but their expressions foreign. Novak had worked with them earlier. They looked mean.

Now that the briefing was over and they were about to leave, Thomas wished she were going. She knew more of what to expect down there. But she also knew enough to know that she didn't have any idea what to expect. Whatever she thought she knew, it was bound to be worse. She had tried to prepare the away teams for the sights, the sounds, even the smells they would encounter. But there was no way she could really do that. She'd never smelled burning, rotting flesh or seen dead bodies stacked like cord wood with her own eyes. She'd seen pictures, of course, read descriptions. But it would never truly prepare someone for the real thing, just as all her research had not sufficiently prepared her for the ghetto. She had forgotten most of that particular mission, but the scenes of children in the streets begging for food next to the dying or the dead still remained.

She only hoped they would all keep a tight check on their emotions. They were supposed to be SS officers. They were supposed to be used to such things. It would be difficult for them all.

* * *

Sisko waited inside the transporter room with Chief O'Brien. The door opened and the first away team entered. Novak stepped onto the pad first. He checked his data PADD once more and then straightened the jacket of his uniform. He was the only one who wouldn't be carrying one of the modified communicators. He could speak the language himself, and his comm badge wouldn't translate anything. He glanced over to Thomas, who had entered with the other away team members. "Worse than the ghetto?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

Thomas was standing in at-ease position, with her hands behind her back. "Much worse."

Sisko took a step toward him, searching for the appropriate encouraging words. He couldn't find any. "Good luck, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir." He turned his head toward O'Brien who was now working the transporter controls. "Ready when you are, Chief."

"They all seem to be still at roll call," O'Brien reported, checking the sensors. "All in a group."

"Good," commented Thomas, "we can watch them as they disperse." Turning to Novak she reminded him not to get too close to the assembly grounds. "You'd be too conspicuous. Hang back and let them pass you. And remember," she said for the whole away team, "he probably won't look the same. It's been five weeks. He'll be hard to recognize. His head was probably shaved when he arrived. He'll be thin. His height would be a good giveaway, as would his accent."

Novak nodded and got the okay signal from O'Brien. He checked his phaser's charge, pocketed it and said, "Energize." He dematerialized and then Lieutenant Barker stepped up to take his place. The next two officers prepared themselves. It was 0830, 0630 on the surface below.

* * *

It was the smell that woke him, more than anything else. It was awful, like the latrines only worse. Mixed with the smell of excrement and waste was one of sickness and death. It was overpowering. And it was directly under his nose. He was laying on his stomach on something soft--"soft" being a relative term. It was a mattress of straw. Wisps of it poked him in the chest. Still, it was better than bare wood. For that, he didn't mind the cold. Only a light blanket covered his back. He could see the new, nearly white bandage that bound his left shoulder. He couldn't move his arm. He felt the wood beneath it though. His wrist was tied to it, leaving his hand facing palm-up. It ached, but only in a dull way, not sharp as it was when he had to work. Light was beginning to filter into the building, and he started to remember where he was.

The hospital. Despite the smell, he felt relieved. It was apparently already morning, but he hadn't been awakened for roll call. The room around him was quiet, with the exception of the moans and delusions of the sick. No one was yelling, no one was beating anyone else. From his position, he could only see another set of beds, stacked one on top of the other, and the patients they contained. He tried to sit up, but found he didn't have the strength. It had been getting harder to move every day since the incident. His clinical sense told him it was because he wasn't eating enough. But then, he would argue, no one can eat enough here. Better to let someone who might survive have the food.

"_Widzę, że pan się obudził._" It was a loud voice near his ear but behind him. It almost sounded cheerful. A body moved toward him. It bent down so that the face was visible. "_Wyleczylismy twoją infekcje tak jak on nam powiedział. Obawiam się, że tylko mogliśmy oczyścić pana obrażenia i je obandarzować._"

Bashir tried to speak, but his voice didn't work. "I don't understand," he whispered.

The doctor looked surprised and backed away a few inches. "_Czy on mowił po Angielsku?_" He said it with some amusement. It was obvious that he knew the answer. Someone replied anyway, though Julian could not see who it was.

"_Moze on mowił po Holendersku._"

The doctor chuckled. "_Nie, nie po Holendersku,_"he said. Then his tone became more even. "_On jest Anglikiem. Czy ktoś tu mówi po Angielsku?_"

There was a murmur in the room and Bashir became aware of more voices beyond the moaning patients. The doctor moved back into his direct line of sight. "_Sprechen Sie deutsch_?"

Bashir wished people would stop asking him that. He did not speak German. "No," he whispered. He didn't feel like answering questions. He felt like sleeping, now that he could. He hoped the doctor didn't speak French.

"_Przynieś mu coś do jedzenia,_" the doctor said. He shook his head and moved away.

Bashir closed his eyes again, hoping for sleep, but it didn't come. Now that he was aware of it, the noise in the room was just too loud, the smell too awful. Another man approached the bed. He had a small crust of bread with him. Julian didn't move to take it. He couldn't. His position was too awkward, and there was someone else beside him, crowding him on the small bed.

The new person, perhaps another doctor or only an orderly of sorts, untied Bashir's hand and helped him to turn. He was careful to keep Bashir's left arm perfectly still despite the movement. Once he was on his side, Bashir surprised the man by sitting up on his own. The man smiled and handed the bread to Bashir. Julian looked at it numbly for a minute or so, but when the man didn't give up and move away, he took the bread. It wasn't as good as the bread that Max brought back to the barracks occasionally, but he hadn't eaten since the watery midday meal the day before. His stomach was glad for it.

The man moved on to other patients, and Bashir sat quietly eating his bread and watching the room around him. The doctors--there were several that he could see--were busy. It was a long building he was in, filled with beds. Each bed held two men, most of them in very bad health. Bashir thought he knew why. Everyone was afraid of the hospital. The selections were too frequent. No one came unless they were desperate. The man beside him groaned, and Bashir looked back at him. His eyes were open and he stared, unseeing, at the bunk above him. His jaw was clenched tight as were his fists which tugged spasmodically at the thin blanket that had covered them both. His lips mumbled something incomprehensible. He shivered, but when Bashir touched his forehead, it was hot.

Bashir folded the blanket back over the man and tucked it around his arms and legs to keep him warm. The man's shivering became less violent, but little else changed. Bashir took his pulse, trying not to lose count. It wasn't easy. His mind was still cloudy, and the man kept tensing up. He didn't seem to be aware of the intrusion though. His pulse was high, too high, and Bashir felt that he would die soon. He tried to imagine the correct diagnosis, but there were so many things that could have caused the fever. Cold, exhaustion, exposure, malnutrition, lice, rats, something in their rations. It could be anything. But without the proper medicines, the proper sanitation, the man would die. And if he didn't, the SS doctors would probably load him on the truck the next time they came.

Julian closed his eyes and tried to imagine his Infirmary back on the station. He was surprised by how distant it seemed, like something buried in the past. But slowly the image became clear to him. The colored displays on black surfaces, the gray upholstery of the biobeds, his shelves with row upon row of medicines, cabinets with instruments. He could remember every name, every use for each of them. And he thought about how much he could do here with just an emergency medical kit.

Bashir began to shiver himself, from the cold in the room. He was wearing pants, but he didn't know where his shirt and coat had been taken. Still, he felt the other man needed the blanket more so he left it where it was. There was nothing else he could do for the man. There was nothing else to give him. Two bunks down, a young man, younger than Bashir would have thought possible in this place, was trying to wrap a bandage around his own foot. With effort, Julian stood and, using the bunks to support him, he went to the boy. "I can help," he whispered, not caring that the boy wouldn't understand.

The boy stopped his wrapping and looked up at Bashir. He seemed confused but he moved back toward the head of the bed so that Bashir could sit down. Julian took hold of the boy's ankle and gently set it on his own thigh. He used his left hand to unwrap what the boy had done, gripping the flimsy cloth weakly between two of his crooked fingers while he lifted the foot with his other hand.

The boy's foot was bad, swollen and colored red and black. It had been rubbed raw by the wooden clogs he had been forced to wear, and his toes were white. Julian placed it back on his thigh and pointed to the boy's toes. Then he wiggled his fingers. The boy nodded, scowling from the pain. But only his big toe moved. The others were frozen. The thin bandage wouldn't do much good, but at least it would add a little insulation. Julian turned further toward the boy, until his knee rested beneath the boy's calf,. His foot was raised then and didn't need to be held. Julian used his good hand to wrap the cloth around the swollen foot.

The man who had given him bread came around toward the bunk again and stopped when he saw Bashir sitting with the boy. He called the doctor over. "_Zobaczcie, co on robi._"

The doctor paused and watched for a few moments. Bashir felt his stare but ignored it. He focused his attention on the boy and the bandage. "_On jest lekarzem,_" the doctor stated quietly behind him, "_albo pielęgniarem._" The doctor waited for him to finish with the boy and then touched his shoulder.

Bashir finished tying off the bandage, using one side of his left hand to hold it in place. He set the boy's foot back on the bed and turned to look at the doctor.

"_Sind Sie Ärzt?_" the doctor asked, speaking slowly in German.

Bashir was still tired and didn't want to try and understand.

The other man tried again. "_Doktor?_"

Bashir nodded slightly. "I was a doctor," he whispered.

The doctor nodded and walked away. When he returned, he was carrying Bashir's shirt and striped coat. He helped Bashir to stand and carefully slipped the shirt's sleeve around Bashir's arm. Bashir started to button the shirt, but the doctor did it for him. He did the same with his coat. Then he left again, returning with a wad of cloth. He unwound it, tied two ends together and slipped the loop over Bashir's head. Then he spread the rest of the cloth out and placed Bashir's hand inside it. He made a motion with his hand that Bashir should follow him.

Bashir was still weak, but he followed the doctor. He was glad to have his clothes again even though he could feel the lice that infested them. He was almost warm with the coat. And for the first time in weeks he was able to relax the muscles in his left arm, cradled as it was by the sling. The doctor led him outside and to another building. There was water there and he washed Bashir's good hand. Then he took him to another room. There was a line waiting there. At least twenty men, each with minor wounds, stood or sat against the wall. The doctor set up two chairs and told the first man to come and sit. He put Bashir in the second chair.

There was one other person in the room, uninjured, and Bashir surmised that he was part of the staff. "_Pomórz mu,_" the doctor said, pointing to Bashir. "_On jest lekarzem, ale ma tylko jedną rąkę.._" The other man nodded and the doctor left the room. He stopped just outside the door. "_I nie mówi po Polsku._"

* * *

Novak emerged from the empty building and gazed around. He wrinkled his nose, resisting the urge to cover his face with the handkerchief that was in one of his pockets. The ghetto had been bad, foul-smelling for lack of sanitation. This place had a sickeningly sweet smell, and the sky was filled with smoke. Novak knew what was burning, and he knew Bashir could be a part of it. More likely, he was killed weeks ago and burned in the ovens then. He put that out of his mind and took up a place near the electrified gate. The roll call was breaking up, and the inmates were coming to work. One of the Ukrainian guards saw him and waved. Novak forced a wave back and stood his ground.

A group of perhaps thirty men, all with gaunt faces, were being herded quickly in his direction. Some were pulling a small cart full of axes. Novak tried to get a good look at each of the men's faces as they passed. Most did not bother to meet his gaze. A courageous few did, lifting their hate-filled eyes for a few seconds to show their defiance. He looked for height. The doctor was around two meters tall. A few of the men reached nearly that height, but their faces were wrong, their eyes not the right color. The SS guard looked at him askance, but Novak turned his face toward the forest that lay beyond the gate. The whole group passed him and he turned back into the camp. Bashir wasn't with them.

* * *

Barker waited until the other SS officer left and then entered the building. A few of the workers looked up from the mounds of clothing and luggage they were sorting. "Back to work!" he yelled, trying to sound forceful. His stomach was still lurching from the stench of the smoke that hung over the camp like a blanket. He could even smell it inside. Next time, if there was a next time, he'd ask the nurses for something to calm his stomach. Breathing people just didn't seem to sit well.

The workers went back to their work as ordered, though he did notice a few sideways glances and shrugging shoulders. He walked slowly, starting down one side of the room, discounting the women and looking closely at the men. Each one stiffened as he walked past. He rested his hand on his gun just for good measure. If they were afraid of him, they wouldn't ask questions.

He was amazed by the piles. There seemed to be an endless supply of clothes, toothbrushes, scissors, shoes, photographs, and other things. Barker thought that each shirt or dress must have been a person, gone now into that smoke. His stomach lurched again, garnering him a few more looks and a smirk or two. He ignored them, moving on. He had crossed half of the room, and none of the workers looked familiar.

* * *

"He's dead now," Szymon said. His tone was solemn, betraying neither sympathy nor satisfaction.

"I don't know, " Max replied. They had just returned from a long roll call and were sharing some cheese Max had smuggled back to the barracks. They had barely had time for anything else. "He's been gone like this before. He survived. I think Heiler doesn't want him dead. I don't know why he hates him so much."

"He's a Jew," Szymon reasoned. "And Heiler's a German. That's all the reason he needs."

"But he singles Bashir out," Max argued. "He doesn't treat everyone like he treats Bashir."

Szymon looked up at him. "I've been here longer. I've seen this before. Sometimes the SS, they latch on to someone, like a toy or a pet. Sometimes they are nicer to that person. Sometimes they are worse. With Heiler, it is worse. What I wonder is, now that Bashir is gone, who will be his next toy? You don't have to worry. You are not in his kommando."

"You're sure he's gone?"

"Ten minutes to lights out! Shut up!"

Szymon ignored the _Blockälteste_'s warning. But he did begin to undress as he spoke. "How can he not be? You saw him after--" He stopped there and Max knew he was speaking of Piotr's death. "He didn't want to live anymore. He was finished. I'm really surprised he lasted this long."

Max nodded. He had to agree. Bashir had been so withdrawn, and he had only eaten when Max had forced it on him. Bashir had grown more emaciated in the last four days than in the five weeks since they had arrived. His eyes, so expressive before, had been hollow and cold. He hadn't even seemed to notice his own pain anymore. He had paid little attention to anything going on around him. He had become one of the Muselmen, and they never lived very long.

* * *

She came for him the next evening just after roll call. He hated to leave, though he knew it wasn't safe in the hospital. There would probably be another selection soon. But he had felt safe, as long as the German doctors hadn't come. Also, he had felt a piece of his life return to him there. He had only treated minor injuries, mostly providing a proper bandaging, but he still considered it practicing medicine. For some, his bandages might have meant the difference between being selected for work or for the gas. He had felt alive again helping them.

He was careful not to show that when she came. He followed her silently and refused the food she offered him. She threatened him, with a beating, with a bullet to the head, but he didn't waver. And she didn't shoot. "Fine, starve!" she finally said. "Keep moving. If I get there before you, I'll kill someone." She shoved him forward so that he was in front of her.

He was back in the barracks in time for lights out. The changeling thrust him through the door just as the _Stubenälteste_ was going to lock it. "_Schnell!_" the _Stubenälteste_ yelled, grabbing his arm and pulling him in. He pushed him deeper into the room. Bashir was unable to step around some of those on the floor, and he heard them groan and curse as he stepped on their feet or fingers. Max was still sitting when he climbed up to the bunk.

Szymon sat up too, when he saw who it was. "_Du hattest recht_," he said to Max. "_Er ist nicht tot._"

"_Frag ihn wo er gewesen ist_," Max prodded. The men sleeping between them shushed him, but he waved them away.

"_Morgen_," Szymon answered obviously impatient. "_Es ist spät. Geh schlafen_."

Bashir understood that last word. He'd heard it enough now. Sleep. He heartily agreed. The work in the hospital hadn't been hard, not like the construction site, but it had gone on long after the other prisoners had stopped working, and it continued even after their roll call. He undressed as quickly as he could in the dark, removing his sling and then replacing it once his coat was off. Max noticed it. "_Krankenbau_?" he whispered, and Bashir had heard that word enough to know it, too. Hospital.

He missed the straw mattress when he laid down. The wood was hard and gave him splinters. There were gaps where the boards didn't quite meet which allowed for drafts beneath the blanket he and Max shared. He never got warm when he slept there. And sleep never came deeply. He could always feel the prickly, cold air, always hear the skittering of the rats, the groans of the men around him, even as he dreamed of home. His quarters back on the station seemed palatial to him now, not only because of his possessions and the replicator, but simply because he didn't have to share them with anyone. Even his quarters on the _Defiant_, as sparse as they were, were a luxury of privacy and cleanliness. Even on the tiny bunks there, he could stretch out to his full height and sleep on a mattress with a real pillow.

In the morning, Heiler asked him once if he felt better. Then her period of kindness was over, and things went on as before. The crematoria they were building was nearing completion, but the German engineer that was overseeing construction still seemed unsatisfied. Whatever the problem was, it lessened the patience of the Nazi guards, even Heiler. She meted out punishment equally among the prisoners instead of concentrating all of her efforts on Bashir.

The _kapo_ didn't send him for the soup that day, either. No one went to retrieve it. This had happened before. They were being punished. Bashir wasn't exactly sure why, but he also knew there didn't have to be a reason. They would probably get the soup after roll call. It would be cold by then and taste even worse than before.

Julian found that the work was easier now, though not by much. His muscles ached from the hours of toil. But he didn't feel as dizzy as before, and he didn't fall down unless he tripped on something. Two days in the hospital had done wonders, if not so much for his physical condition, then for his stamina and perhaps even his spirit. He had eaten breakfast in the morning without any prodding from Max for the first time since the incident, and he hadn't even looked at the fence all morning. It was an improvement.

* * *

Major Kira stood at attention in the mess hall waiting for the away team to return. It was 2300 hours, 2100 on the particular section of Earth below them. And according to Thomas, all the prisoners would be in bed by then. Curfew. She remembered that from the Occupation. Such a simple thing. A time to be in. Lights out. Yet it never felt simple. It felt like a chain around one's neck, pulling tight at a certain time to remind the lowly of their place. Kira was almost glad she wasn't on the away team. She might have killed someone.

The comm channel brought her out of her reverie. "Major, the away team is beaming up."

"Thank you," Kira answered. "Have them meet me in the mess hall immediately." She already knew they hadn't found him. Someone would have called if they had. Of course, they might have found him, but been unable to find any privacy until now, but she thought that unlikely.

"Kira to Sisko," she said, tapping her badge. She hated to wake him, but he had left strict orders. "The away team is returning, Captain."

"I'll be right there," he answered, his voice still sounding groggy.

Kira tried to force herself to relax, to loosen her stance. She couldn't sit down though, so she leaned against one of the tables. The door opened almost immediately and she jumped just a bit. She crossed her arms tightly, angry at herself for being startled. Then she sneezed.

"Bless you," Ensign Salerno offered quietly before he slumped into a chair. Jordan entered behind him, and Kira had to resist the urge to sneeze again. When the two other members joined them, the smell became even stronger. But she didn't sneeze anymore. It made her nauseous. She remembered the smell and how it had hung on her clothes for days after Gallitep. She had beaten them against rocks and scrubbed them fiercely in the Galanda River. But still the stench had remained. By then she had realized though, the smell wasn't in the fabric so much as in her mind. After all these years, she'd finally managed to free herself of it. Until now.

It had been the same yesterday afternoon, when the first away team had returned. She'd dreamt of Gallitep that night and every scene, every sound, was as vivid to her now as the day she had seen it for the first time.

Captain Sisko was the last to enter, but when he did, he was fully dressed and wide awake. Only the bulges under his eyes hinted of his fatigue. But they were all used to that. Sisko stood in the doorway for a moment, preventing it from closing. He surveyed the room and then he sighed. He knew, too. He took a step forward, and the door swished shut behind him. "How much longer?"

Jordan stood, pulling himself to attention. "One more day ought to do it, sir." He sounded tired when he said it. He didn't relax though. He looked as if he had more to say. He rolled his lips a moment, considering, before he spoke. "They killed ten men tonight at roll call. None of them were Bashir. But I couldn't help wondering who they were. It's so hard being down there, Captain, and not being able to help those people. I kept thinking, just the four of us," he fanned his around, indicating his team members, "with our phasers, we could have taken them all out before they even knew what hit them." He shrugged and gave a short, hysterical chuckle. Then he became quiet again. "But we couldn't do that."

Salerno spoke up next, though he never raised his head. "There's a little road there, that leads to the gas chambers. It's paved with tombstones. You can still see the Hebrew letters on some of the pieces. Isn't it bad enough that they kill those people? How did we ever get to be so cruel?"

Part of Kira's anger fell away. The people doing the killing were humans. She had met a lot of humans these last five years. If she had known then about this part of their past, she might have turned down the position on DS9 altogether, thinking them no different than the Cardassians. But she hadn't known, and she had stayed. And she knew that the Cardassians, barring a few special individuals, would never stop to consider their cruelty as these young officers were. They would never even recognize it.

"I think," Captain Sisko began equally as quiet, "it's more important to remember that we grew out of that cruelty. That is not who we are. We are Starfleet officers. And if you didn't feel the way you do right now, after seeing what you've seen, I'd be much more worried than I am. Prepare a report for the morning's away team and senior staff. Then get some sleep."

He left, but Kira stayed with the away team to help them write their report. Using the map of the camp, they marked off which areas had been searched and which remained to be investigated. Jordan had been right, one more day and they would have the camp covered, with the only exception being the dead. Those who were killed right away weren't registered in the camp, so Jordan would not have come across their names in the camp records. If Julian had died there, they would likely never know it.

Still, the extermination area was the one large place they had left to search. And Kira fervently hoped they wouldn't find him there either. She didn't want to think of Julian being forced to participate in the killing of others. She was sure he would refuse anyway, and end up with the dead. In which case, they would never know about it. But, in some cases, not knowing was the lesser of two evils.

* * *

Thomas was finding it hard to sleep. Images of the ghetto kept coming to her at night from her blocked memory, exaggerated by the effect of dreaming. The buildings seemed taller, thinner, darker, almost alive with misery. The dead on the streets called out to her by name. "Save us!" they cried. "Why didn't you save us?"

"I trusted you," he said. She didn't know who he was, but his thin, bearded face was in all her dreams, always accusing her. "I trusted you with my life, with my family. I thought you were different." He felt familiar to her. He poked one finger at her as he spoke, touching her hard in the center of her chest. When she woke up, she could still feel the pain.

* * *

In the morning, Novak took up where Jordan had left off, checking the records of all those who had been registered into the camp. Barker had drawn the unfortunate task of searching the extermination area. This time, the nurses had given him something for his stomach. They had also given him a cold. It was his own idea. If he had a cold, he wouldn't be able to smell anything, besides it would fit the weather down on the planet. It had been winter for months. He could also use it as an excuse for not yelling at anyone. He had narrowly escaped that the day before.

He beamed down in the narrow passage between two buildings and was immediately assaulted by the noise. Despite the early hour, the gas chambers to the north were already being used. He looked left and right quickly, to be sure he wasn't seen. If the chambers behind him were being used, he might have been spotted by those being forced inside. But no one was there and that worry aside, Barker now had to deal with the sound. It was eerie, ghostly except that the people making the sound weren't ghosts . . . yet. They wailed and screamed, crying out as they died. He even imagined he could hear them on the other side of the wall, scratching, leaving trails of blood on the concrete as they struggled for air. He felt sick anyway.

"You have a job to do, Ensign," he whispered to himself. He pushed himself away from the wall and toward the corner of the building. He looked carefully both ways before he stepped out into the open. When he finally did, he tried to walk as purposefully as he could. He could see the watchtower above him, just off to the left. The Ukrainian guard who manned the station would be watching the Jewish prisoners, but Barker knew he would also be watching the SS, though not for the same reason.

The screams from inside the chamber were already beginning to die away as the life was extinguished from the room. Directly in front of him were the cremation pyres. He could still see the forms of skulls and appendages, even whole bodies, turned into ash. The faces he saw, with their lips curled back away from their teeth--if they still had skin at all--were all unrecognizable. And most bodies weren't even whole to check for height. Still, Barker wasn't there to look among the dead. He was to search the living, those who were burning the bodies, those who were condemned to leading the doomed to die.

Some of those prisoners were stoking up the fires again, preparing for the next batch, those that were in the chambers now. Barker watched them as he approached. They moved slowly, lethargically, most of them, seemingly unaffected by the _kapo_'s whip. Their gaunt, ashen faces never looked up from the ground directly in front of them. Their shoulders hunched over their work. Even the SS seemed subdued here.

The screaming had stopped and the doors were opened. Naked bodies tumbled out. The SS came to life, screaming and shoving, making the prisoners run. They carried the bodies one at a time to the pyre. More were laid to the side to wait their turn. The chamber had to be emptied. There were more people to put in.

Barker kept his distance from the other SS, but worked his way slowly around the pyre, squinting his eyes from the smoke. He coughed and his throat felt raw. He wondered how much of that was from the cold. His eyes began to tear, and he wondered how much of that was from the smoke.

A few of the men were tall enough, if one could tell from their stooped position, but none of them looked right on closer inspection. Barker moved away from the pyre and closer to the chamber. There were other prisoners guiding the new arrivals from the "tube," the little tombstone-paved road that led from the undressing area, into the chamber. He could hear them speaking. Some spoke in German or Yiddish which was translated by his new translator. "It's only a shower," they were saying. "Everything will be fine. You'll see. Hold your children tightly. Stay together so you can find each other after the delousing." Some of the voices spat out the lies, others spoke them kindly, soothingly, as if the lies were all they had to offer those people as they were herded into the darkened room. All the voices he heard in Standard had lacked any particular accent. Bashir's voice would have spoken with British inflections. And they knew from his records that he didn't speak Polish or German. He was not among them either.

* * *

Bashir had changed since going to the hospital. He seemed alive again, at least a little, no more the Muselman. He ate now without being forced, though he still didn't try hard to get his place in line. He seemed so much more casual about it now. If he had food, he ate it. If he went without, he didn't complain. He didn't say anything at all. That much hadn't changed. Szymon had even tried to speak to him. He had asked about the hospital. Bashir only nodded in confirmation that he'd been there.

Szymon had changed, too. From the night that Piotr had died, Szymon had grown quiet, less angry instead of more. But as they had watched Bashir deteriorate, Szymon had become more concerned, offering to translate if Max should try and speak with him, or trying on his own to get Bashir to speak. Max had even watched him push others out of the way as he dragged Bashir up the line with him for their morning rations.

Max had asked him why once, the night that they believed Bashir was dead. Why was he caring about Bashir now, when he couldn't be bothered with the Englishman before? Szymon had said one sentence before turning his back to go to sleep. "Because they made him kill my brother." Max had never questioned again. He didn't understand. Szymon hadn't explained Piotr's death and, of course, Bashir hadn't spoken of it. But Max could see that he wasn't welcome to push. Szymon, like himself, had enough misery in Auschwitz. He didn't need Max to cause him more.

Another thing that hadn't changed was Bashir's nightly vigil beside the barracks. Most nights there was nothing to see but the billows of one's own breath against the cold air, but he sat there anyway, staring upward at the sky or smoke. Only now, he made it in before the _Stubenälteste_ locked the door. He always gave himself time to walk across the floor to the bunk slowly so that he wouldn't have to step on the unfortunates who still slept on the floor.

Both of them, Szymon and Bashir, seemed to fall asleep quickly once they laid down. Max wasn't sure why it took him longer. He was exhausted, too, though his work was different. It wore on his heart often more than that it did his shoulders. He longed for someone to talk to, to tell what he saw on the trains. Not about the bodies. All of them saw bodies everyday. They lay as common as stones on the ground every morning, noon, and night. But he wanted to share the memories, the little pieces of life that were left on the trains, the evidences of hope and of hardship.

People brought the silliest things with them to this place. Of course, they didn't know what they were coming to. They were told a lie and they wanted to believe it more than anything. Because the truth was too unbelievable, too incredible, too horrible to be true. So they had brought their money with them, hoping to buy what they would need or perhaps better treatment. It had worked in the past. They brought razors with them, and hairbrushes and toothbrushes, little things for daily life. Surely they were necessary. They brought dolls with them and toys so that their children could play and not be so lonely. They brought photographs so they could remember what they had lost. Prayer shawls and umbrellas, pots and pans, winter coats and summer dresses. They didn't know just as Max hadn't known when he was coming. He had had all the same things in his bag, and little Hana had carried her favorite doll in her arms.

Szymon and Bashir fell asleep from exhaustion. Max cried himself to sleep tearlessly every night seeing the faces of his friends and family and people he would never know.

* * *

Sisko ordered the change of course at midnight. The eight men had searched Treblinka as thoroughly as they could without being conspicuous. Bashir was not among the prisoners there. O'Brien and the mostly female remaining crew had finished the _Defiant_'s emergency repairs. The warp drive was now functioning. The Chief promised that in two days, the drive would be able to get them around the sun and back to their own century where a fully-equipped starbase could finish the job.

There was only one place left to look. Beyond that, Sisko knew he'd have to give up on Julian and take the rest of his people home. They would reach Auschwitz before daybreak.


	13. Chapter 13

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Thirteen**

This time, they all went. Every 'Aryan' on the ship. Thomas was included, though it was understood that women would have less chance of finding Bashir. Men guarded men in Auschwitz. Women guarded women. In Birkenau, that would make a very large difference. Women and men were kept in two different sections of the compound, separated by electric wire. In the main camp though, three kilometers down the road, things were not quite so segregated. Thus the women of the _Defiant_ would concentrate their search there, getting in wherever they could, even if it only meant searching camp records.

Thomas had to admit to a small sense of disappointment, though it embarrassed her. It wasn't that she was excited to see people suffering. That certainly wasn't the case, just as it hadn't been the case in the ghetto. She'd dreamed about that again last night. The same bearded man visited her each time she dreamt about it. Sometimes he accused her of some sort of betrayal, others he begged her for his life, and sometimes he shouted horrible angry things at her from somewhere in the trees. Dressed as a partisan in rough clothes, he'd rush at her, brandishing his German Luger. She awoke before he fired.

Thomas shook her head and forced the remnants of the dream away and continued with her thoughts as if they hadn't been interrupted. She was disappointed because she'd always read about Birkenau. Auschwitz I was a relative haven by comparison, with its one tiny gas chamber and its sturdy brick buildings separated by organized streets. She forgot all that though as she materialized on one of the dim stone-covered streets. The smell, like Novak and the others had brought back on their uniforms, came to her immediately, despite the seeming peace of the still pre-dawn morning. There was death here, too. And then she remembered. She'd read a lot about this place too. About Block 11, the Death Block with its standing cells and punishment brigades. About Block 10, where the SS doctors performed painful medical experiments on helpless, powerless prisoners. About public hangings on the_ Appellplatz_. About the sign above the gate that promised work would make them free.

This was where, in years and centuries to come, people would come to see the roomfuls of suitcases and shoes and brushes and artificial limbs and hair and empty cans of Zyklon B. This would be the museum, the place that would bear witness to the deaths of over one million people that died in all of Auschwitz, from here to Birkenau, to Monowitz and all its factories full of forced laborers. This was history.

* * *

It had been still dark when they were called out for roll call. No morning rations or lines to the latrines. The Germans were upset about something, though they never bothered explaining it to the thousands of gathered prisoners. A light snow began to fall just as the sun's haze began to glow on the lower side of the clouds of smoke above their heads. Still, they were not sent away for work. The _Appellplatz_ was silent; the counting was done. Except for the biting cold and the fatigue in his legs, Bashir could almost count it a peaceful morning. But every few minutes the silence was broken when one of the prisoners fell or coughed or shivered too noticeably. He was pulled from the ranks and beaten severely and left to lie with the dead who had been dragged out of the barracks when the _Appell_ started. The beaten one moaned for a few minutes more and then silence regained its dominance. Bashir could almost hear the snow as it fell to the ground and half-melted in the mud at his feet.

While he stood, Bashir tried to count the days since he'd last seen the _Defiant_. He tried at first by counting forward from the fifth of February, the day he'd been transported. But he lost too many days right at the start. The train ride had been a blur. Was it two days or three? Perhaps four? And then there was the other camp, Block 11. He'd barely been conscious those days, and, though he had vivid memories of his time there, he really couldn't be certain how long it had taken. And after that the days and weeks had simply melted together into near monotony broken up with only a few significant incidents. But who was to say on which day they had occurred?

Still, he could estimate. If he counted only three days for the train, he still ended up with five weeks.

Five weeks. More than a month. Captain Sisko, if he was still alive, would had to have left by then. And if the changeling had been telling the truth, and Sisko was dead, then Worf would surely have left him behind. Bashir was only one man, lost and buried deep in the Nazis' system. After five weeks, they'd have to assume he was dead. The _Defiant_ would turn back, returning to his century without him. And he couldn't really blame them. Captain Sisko would have held out as long as he could, but eventually he would have had to weigh the good of the crew over the hope of one man. Dax might have protested. O'Brien certainly would have. But in the end, Bashir knew the captain had made the right choice even though it left him stuck in this hell. Liberation was still two years away. He'd never last two years. And the changeling would finally be rid of him and seek her amusement and revenge elsewhere. Maybe Hitler would win the war and there would be no liberation. Changelings could live for hundreds of years. There was no end to what she could do against an unsuspecting population. What kind of future, Bashir wondered, had the_ Defiant_ returned home to?

* * *

Novak had realized, by looking at the map provided by the ship's computer, that Auschwitz was much larger than Treblinka. But it was something different down on the surface. It wasn't even Earth any longer. It was some decrepit, foul planet all its own, where the mud never froze and the air was barely breathable. There was no sky, only billows of black smoke, pouring ash mixed with snow on the landscape. The majority of its inhabitants were humanoid but not human. They looked more like stick figures. Some didn't have all their clothes, and their arms or legs, bones barely covered with a thin layer of skin, showed. Their feet, though, were huge, caked with the sticky mud of the place. It seemed impossible that their thin legs could even lift them.

The other inhabitants looked human, fit and warm in their long, dark coats. But looks were deceiving, Novak mused, for these were the aliens. These were the monsters that had ceased to be human, not the stick men who stood stiff against the wind as they were counted.

The men began to mill around, breaking their ranks and forming new ones. There were more than a thousand of them, already more than at Treblinka, but this was just one group, in this one camp. There were dozens of other groups and hundreds of other camps in the Auschwitz complex. This was just Birkenau, and Novak could see that it would take weeks just to search this one with the number of Aryans in the _Defiant_'s crew.

* * *

As Lieutenant Jordan watched the roll call break up, he decided that even his phaser would do him little good here. It was just too big. They'd need an army of phasers or the _Defiant_ itself to take out the Nazis here and their Ukrainian guards. But, of course, that wouldn't happen. The timeline, as horrible as this part of it was, had to be protected. Bashir, if he was here, if he was still alive, would be the only one they'd rescue. But as he watched the kommandos move out and past him, Jordan wished they'd found him at Treblinka. It would be worse than trying to find a needle in a haystack here. It was like finding the one piece of hay that was only three inches long in that haystack. No magnet would help.

There were just too many people to see all of them as they passed. The ones in the middle seemed to turn their heads slightly as they went by. _Afraid to be noticed_, Jordan decided. It would be easier as a prisoner, he realized.

Just then there was a commotion toward the head of the group. Jordan turned to look in that direction, knowing that he would miss the faces of the group as they passed. Still he couldn't help it. He watched in horror as the SS guard for the group grabbed one of the prisoners nearest him, yanking him out of the line as the others still marched past. The SS beat the man in the face until he could no longer stand on his feet. He was hanging there by the arm when the other SS man released the dog. The first SS laughed and let the man go. He moved away and watched as the man screamed. The dog had him by the crotch.

Jordan turned away, away from the man and from the group. He just couldn't watch anymore. He felt his breakfast working its way back up his throat.

"Something wrong?" The voice came with a hand that touched his shoulder.

Jordan turned quickly to see who had spoken. It was the SS, the dog-handler. He was tall and looked down at Jordan with considerable concern. Or was it suspicion? Jordan knew he couldn't look weak to the man. He had to swallow to keep from throwing up. But his hand was still on his stomach. "Ulcer," he lied. "I should have been more careful what I ate for breakfast. Too much coffee sets it off."

The dog-handler nodded, but he looked over toward his dog, keeping him in sight. "Yeah, but you have to have the coffee to be awake this early. Some days we're up before the sun."

"Our sacrifice," Jordan said, staring coldly at the man, "for the Fatherland." He really wanted the man to go away. He didn't want him to ask any questions, like where he came from and what he was supposed to be doing standing there by the gate. Still, he had an idea. Jerking his head toward the end of the moving column, he asked. "Where are these Jews from?"

The dog-handler saw that his dog was finished and began to move away. "Oh, from all over," he called back. As he rejoined his dog, it became harder to hear. The victim of the attack lay motionless, a mass of black and white stripes covered with red, on the ground. "They say we've even got English in here somewhere."

Jordan nearly jumped and hoped he'd heard the man right. English. Had he said one or more than one? He couldn't tell. Still, the Germans never conquered England, never had a chance to deport its Jews. It had to be Bashir. "Where?" he asked, realizing that it could draw suspicion. Like the prisoners, he should try not to be noticed.

Still, the dog-handler was too far away and the sloshing of feet in the mud was too loud. He didn't quite hear. "Stay off the coffee!" the SS yelled, patting his stomach and smiling widely as he stepped over the dog's victim.

Jordan tried not to run as he hurried toward the nearest barrack building. The workers were gone now. He hoped it would be empty. He stepped inside and looked around, checking under all the bunks and even climbing up onto the brick wall that ran down the middle and led to a chimney on one side. From there, he could see the tops of the bunks. He ran the length of it. And when he was satisfied that there was no one inside, he jumped down, pulling his comm badge from his pocket as he did.

"Jordan to _Defiant_," he called.

"_Defiant_," Sisko's voice answered. "Are you secure, Lieutenant?" He sounded concerned and surprised. Communication with the ship was dangerous and therefore only for emergencies.

"Yes, sir," Jordan answered. "No one can see or hear me. I think he's here, sir."

There was a slight pause. "How do you know?"

"One of the SS, he said there were English here," he said, rushing the words out. "I couldn't quite hear him, so I don't know if he was talking about one man or more, but he definitely said English."

"Hold on, Lieutenant. Prepare for transport."

* * *

Thomas heard a clicking sound. She'd just entered the yard between Blocks 10 and 11. The guard at the gate had questioned her, but she'd put him off by saying she'd been ordered there by the Gestapo. He seemed satisfied and let her in. Still there were others in the yard. Three prisoners were hanging by their wrists on tall posts near the covered windows of Block 10. And the guard could still see her from his place near the gate.

The clicking came again and she made her way purposefully toward one of the doors of Block 11, where the Gestapo would be. She hoped there was no guard on the other side of the door. She stepped up to it and tried the knob. The door opened easily. It was unlocked and unguarded. She'd been lucky. She closed it quickly and then edged forward to check the connecting hallway. Looking right and left, she pulled her comm badge from her pocket. She pressed it, opening the channel and then held it close to her mouth as she moved back toward the door. "Thomas here," she whispered.

"Clear for transport," came the answer on the other end.

She checked the hallway and door again and then replied. "Clear."

The transport came quickly and within seconds, she was standing on the _Defiant_. Sisko was there and so was an SS officer. He removed his hat, and she could see that it was Jordan.

"We need to know if there were any other English people in Auschwitz," the captain told her.

Thomas wasn't sure why they were asking now, why they had pulled her from the planet as if it was some emergency. "I don't know," she admitted. "There could have been, I suppose. If they were traveling and got caught in one of the wrong countries. There was even an American here at one point. None were taken from England directly, I'm pretty sure. There were POW's, but I think they were in Monowitz."

"One of the SS said something about English being in the camp, in Birkenau," Jordan explained for her.

Thomas understood now. They were asking if it was Bashir the SS had spoken about. "Well, it could be him," she said. "We know he was on one of those transports. He had to have come here or to Treblinka. And I really doubt he'd be sent to the gas right off. He's young and intelligent, and he was very healthy at the time."

Sisko watched her carefully, but there was a light in his eyes, a brightening of his features. "Then it sounds like," he stated, "the odds have turned in our favor."

* * *

The changeling watched him as he worked. Bashir still stumbled occasionally and fumbled with his tools. But he was more alert now, no longer the Muselman. He didn't seem to want to die anymore, though it could hardly be said that he was trying to live. He was more passive about it all. Death or survival seemed to weigh equal with him. And Heiler wasn't quite sure what to do with such an attitude. When he had wanted to live, she made him wish for death. When he wanted to die, she had denied it. But now he was teetering precariously on the border between the two, and she didn't know which way to push him off.

Still, she had more practical worries for the moment. The work on this crematoria was almost done. She would have to find him a new kommando before one of the other SS did. She also had to worry about transferring Heiler. She had to keep Bashir in sight. It would be too conspicuous to merely abandon Heiler's persona and take another in the new kommando. There was no way to explain Heiler's disappearance. So she had to pander to her so-called superiors tomorrow and beg for the transfer.

Tonight she had to bribe one of the other SS to trade with Heiler. They were still building barracks for expansion in the other parts of the camp. She would try taking Bashir there. The work would be difficult for him, but not impossible. No more than the work he was doing now. Of course, he wouldn't know the _kapo_ there. He might not get sent to retrieve the soup every day. The _kapo_ here was easy on him. She'd make sure that wasn't the case in his new assignment. She didn't want him to die, but she didn't want him to be too comfortable either.

* * *

Things went differently the next morning. The search was now concentrated on the men and Birkenau, though the women would still search key areas, such as the prisoner records. Thomas was sent back to Block 11 and its Gestapo files. Barker was glad that he would not be dealing with the _Sonderkommando_ this time. He'd had nightmares about it from Treblinka. This time, Novak had drawn that card, though he had other areas to search first. The break up of roll call was still their best chance for seeing all the prisoners, so most of the _Defiant_'s away team were stationed near gates and intersections of the camp's roads. Afterwards they would branch out to other areas.

Barker watched the work group passing him. They seemed healthier than the others he had seen. Their faces were not as tightly drawn. They weren't as thin, though they still dragged their feet when they marched. They were better dressed, too, not in the mismatch of old, worn clothes with a stripe of paint on the back, but in the gray and blue stripes. They even wore regular shoes, not clogs.

They left through the main gate, marching right past Barker. The group he'd watched the day before had only a few SS to guard them. This one had more and they were headed in the direction of the main gate. Barker could guess where they were going from the map he'd had to memorize. The railroad line. They were going to greet a new transport. They were better dressed and healthier so as not to frighten the new arrivals.

A few of the prisoners looked over at Barker as they passed. Barker ignored them and concentrated on the taller ones, straining hard to match their faces with the doctor's as it might look after five weeks in this place. Then he decided it wasn't worth the effort. These men were thin but not emaciated. Bashir, if he was among them, probably wouldn't have changed so much. He'd always been thin. Bashir would look like himself, and Barker didn't see him here.

* * *

Szymon coughed. It happened just after the roll call had been counted. He'd stood in line for two hours without making a sound or movement, and it took Bashir by surprise. It was a small cough, barely audible though it did cause the SS to stop in his tracks. Bashir watched him out of the corner of his eye. The man scanned the ranks of prisoners looking for the source of the sound he had heard, but he seemed unsure of the direction. Bashir prayed Szymon wouldn't cough again.

He didn't. But if one was standing near enough, as Bashir was, one could hear him struggling, nearly choking as he held it in. The SS still watched the group warily though he resumed his original path. The roll call was released and Bashir and Szymon both moved toward their kommando. Szymon was slower though than usual, and he cleared his throat as he ran through the crowds, trying to get the coughing out of his system.

Bashir looked around, trying to spot Heiler. But the changeling was far enough away that he didn't have to worry. He turned to Szymon, helping him along with his good arm. "What's wrong?" he whispered.

Szymon looked back at him like he'd seen a ghost. Bashir realized that for all Szymon knew, Bashir hadn't spoken since before the incident and Piotr's death. Still, there was no time for such considerations. Szymon waved his hand away. "Nothing," he lied. "I'm fine."

Julian didn't believe him. He touched the man's face before he could turn away. It was hot despite the hours they'd just spent in the cold and sleet. "You have a fever," he said. "You can't work." He needed to be in a hospital. A fever here was deadly, as was just about anything else.

For a moment, Szymon became the man he had met the first day at the barracks. "_You_ can't work," he retorted, pointing to Bashir's left arm.

"Good point," Bashir said, conceding the argument. They would both work, no matter their respective conditions, because work at least held the chance of survival. Bashir wondered though, if it was typhoid fever. Would Szymon's sickness endanger him and the other members of the kommando or the barracks where they slept?

There was no more time to discuss it, however. The kommando was formed and the _kapo_ was beginning to count them. It was roll call all over again, but this one wouldn't last as long. In a few minutes, they would be running again, marching at double-time to the nearly completed gas chamber where hundreds would be slaughtered in the coming years. Bashir never forgot that. He thought about it everyday as he passed out of the gate and onto the muddy road.

* * *

Lieutenant Barker had drawn the hospital this time, much to his relief. Anything had to be better than the extermination areas. Besides, the Nazis did try to match skilled workers with their previous occupations. They might have put Bashir to work there. Or he might just be a patient. Either way, it was a good place to look. And with the insignia of an SS doctor, Barker would have free reign to roam the buildings.

He was surprised by the stench though as he neared the buildings. Hospitals were supposed to be clean. He hadn't expected it. Though after he gave it a little thought, he wasn't all that shocked. The Nazis didn't care if the inmates lived in squalor and died by the thousands. Why would they care about letting them have a clean, sanitary hospital?

There was a line of people already waiting to get in. Some of them scattered as he approached, fearing his uniform. Barker let them go without a word. He couldn't see yelling at them for skipping out on their work details. They had enough worries, besides, none of them would dare question him. They all stepped back as he passed them into the doorway of the first building.

All motion came to a complete stop when he did. Those who were standing, the doctors and orderlies, immediately came to attention. Those who couldn't stand watched him fearfully. Some even held their breath.

"I'm very sorry, _Herr Obersturmfüher_," one of the doctors said, approaching with his head down. His voice shook slightly, barely perceptibly when he spoke. "We did not realize there was a selection today."

"This isn't a selection," Barker answered, trying to sound stern. "I'm looking for one prisoner."

The doctor raised his eyes at that and then immediately dropped them again. "What is his number, _Herr Obersturmfüher_?" __

Good question, Barker thought. If we knew that, Bashir would be a lot easier to find. "I don't know his number. But I think you would remember him. He's an Englishman. A doctor."

The doctor didn't answer right away. He was hesitating and Barker saw it. He had heard of Bashir.

"Where can I find this prisoner?" Barker asked again, raising his voice. "Is he working here or not?"

"He is no longer here, _Herr Obersturmfüher_," the doctor answered finally, rushing the words out. "He was here only for two days. He treated minor wounds. He was returned to his barracks."

Barker tried to keep the emotion out of his face. This was a major clue. Bashir--it had to have been Bashir--had been here before. "Which barracks?"

"I don't know, _Herr Obersturmfüher_." The doctor spoke more confidently now. "The _Scharfüher_ who brought him here did not give us much information. He said he would return for him in two days and he did. The doctor did not speak German or Polish. We could not speak to him." __

Damn. So close. They'd almost been pointed right to his barracks. Barker tried another track. "When did he leave?"

"On Sunday, _Herr Obersturmfüher_."

Barker counted the days in his head, trying to remember the calendar for this time. It was Wednesday. They had missed him by three days. _Only three days!_ They had still been in Treblinka on Sunday. The wrong camp. If they'd searched here first, they might have found him.

Barker risked a smile for the doctor. "Very good. Carry on." He could hear the sigh behind him when he turned on his heels and left through the still open door. Strangely, the lines of prisoners were gone. The yard in front of the building was empty all the way to the barbed wire fence.

* * *

Szymon didn't look any better at lunch, though Bashir was convinced now that it was not typhoid fever. Without a better examination, he couldn't be sure just what had caused Szymon's fever, but like the man in the hospital, it could have been just about anything. The cold, hunger, dysentery, anything.

Szymon wanted to take off his coat, but Bashir wouldn't let him. Szymon knew better anyway. Taking off his coat would draw attention. Luckily for Bashir, Heiler did not seem to be on duty today, but the other SS could still be a threat. It was best to work as quickly as possible and to keep quiet. The one who stuck out was the one who got beaten or killed. The mass survived.

When Heiler returned just after lunch, Bashir moved away from Szymon. He learned his lesson with Henri and then Piotr. Heiler would kill any friends she knew he had. That is why he had stopped talking. He didn't want her to think that Max or Szymon were friends. He didn't want them to die because of him.

Heiler kept a close eye on him after lunch. He was never more than 20 meters away, and he constantly hurled insults at the workers in German. Occasionally he'd throw in an English one for good measure, never forgetting to add the characteristic accent. It made Bashir nervous, having the changeling so close. He tried to ignore her, but sometimes she'd come up right behind him, yelling at him to work faster. Toward evening though, she stepped too close and when Bashir stepped back, he tripped over one of Heiler's shiny, black boots.

"Get up, you stupid pig Jew!" Heiler snarled. But of course he made it impossible to actually get up, kicking Bashir when he sat up, or knocking his hand out from beneath him. "You have work to do! Get up!"

One of the boots landed directly on his shin with a force that stung. Out of instinct, Julian grabbed his leg. She started to plant another one, but was distracted when Szymon coughed again. It was a great hacking cough, this time, not a quiet one. She stopped kicking Bashir and turned away toward the sound. But by then it had stopped. Bashir made sure he was standing again before she turned around. He was already back to work.

His leg throbbed, but he found he could stand and walk on it without much trouble. It was bruised, but not broken, but he couldn't stop to look at it to see how bad the damage was. Roll call that evening was long, cutting into the prisoners' free time, but he tried to look at it positively. The cold air would help to keep his leg from swelling. Still, by the time he had returned to the barracks that night, it had turned purple just where she had kicked him and a knot had formed just below. He packed it with snow he gathered from the near barracks while he sat outside. He had to get the snow from right near the building, otherwise, it was covered and mixed with mud from the prisoners' shoes.

He got up when it was time to go inside. It hurt more trying to walk around the prisoners on the floor, but he managed to avoid most of them. Unfortunately though, he bumped his shin on the bunk as he climbed up, sending pain shooting up his leg. He gritted his teeth until the pain subsided and then finished his climb. Once up on the bunks, Max gave him a piece of cheese he had salvaged from the train, and he thanked Szymon for helping him today. Max smiled when he heard Bashir speak, but Julian ignored him. He didn't plan on saying anything more.

Szymon still worried him though. The cough had been real. His face was red even in the dim light of the barracks. He was sweating even though it was cold, and he refused the blanket that had to serve all four men in his bunk. He'd eaten the cheese Max gave him though. At least he still had an appetite.

* * *

Jordan stepped inside the block with the others, the last of the prisoners to go in. One of the block functionaries locked the door behind them, but he seemed to take no notice of the fit stranger that had entered. A few of the prisoners eyed him suspiciously, but he simply eyed them back, checking their faces to see if they were familiar. He found a place to lie down on the floor. He didn't want to take one of the bunks away from the prisoners. He didn't want to make trouble. He was in danger enough as it was.

He closed his eyes when the lights went out, along with everyone else, but he didn't go to sleep. He was waiting. He assumed they would all fall asleep quickly, and then he would search the room more thoroughly, this time with a miniature tricorder, specially made by Chief O'Brien.

It had taken the better part of the evening to argue his case with Captain Sisko. Everyone agreed that it was too dangerous to search for Bashir as a prisoner, but Jordan believed it was probably the best way to find him. He was just another man with a shaven head and a striped uniform. It smelled just like everyone else's too. He'd gotten the uniform from a dead man earlier in the day. He'd finally convinced the captain that he understood the risk and Sisko had allowed it. But only at night. He would only be a prisoner after evening roll call and before the one in the morning. Under no circumstances was he to be counted among the prisoner population.

It grew quiet quickly, just as he had planned. But it was difficult walking the length of the room without stepping on someone else who had been sleeping on the floor. One of the men stirred as he passed, and Jordan had to stuff his tricorder back inside his shirt pocket quickly. But the man fell back to sleep and Jordan moved on. He had left his shoes on the floor where he had supposedly been sleeping. He felt the top of the brick wall that divided the room, but it wasn't hot at all. So, setting his tricorder to warn him of any movement beyond tossing and turning, Jordan climbed up onto the wall and began to scan the top bunks as he looked for faces.

He couldn't see everyone. It was dark and some had their heads turned away from him. So he used the tricorder with them, checking height and weight, and DNA readings. Occasionally a prisoner got up and nearly ran to the bucket at one end of the barracks. He returned after relieving himself and Jordan was afforded a few more minutes to scan uninterrupted.

The night was half over by the time he'd finished the top two rows on each side of the barracks. He stepped down off the wall and began to scan the bottom bunk and the floors. When he was about a third of the way down one side, a small light in the corner of his tricorder's display began to flash red. He froze. Someone was coming. He checked the scan. Whoever they were, they were still fifty meters away, not even inside the barracks. He let out a slow breath and moved on, keeping a close eye on the tricorder screen.

He'd just finished when the tricorder showed the range of whoever was moving as being inside the barracks. But it was mostly quiet. The only sounds were the groans of some of the men. No one was up. Jordan could even hear the wind howling outside. But he hadn't heard a door at all.

And then he saw it. Something long and black moved by the door at the far end of the barracks. The scanner showed another behind him. Then two more showed up. And four more after that. It wasn't until one of them bit his toe that he actually saw what they were. Rats.

It took hold of him and he instinctively cried out, waking some of the others. As he danced around, trying to remove the rodent from his foot without stepping on anyone else, he shoved the tricorder back into hiding. Other men began to scream. The rat at his feet was easily half a meter long, maybe more. And Jordan wasn't counting the tail. It was huge and it did not want to release its hold. Its claws began to dig into his foot as it tried to hold on.

Jordan stumbled backwards until he fell back into his place, landing on his hard wooden clogs. He grabbed one and began beating the rodent with it. It took ten good hits before it decided it wasn't worth it. Jordan kicked it away and fumbled around his bundle for his coat. Finally he just jumped back onto the wall, taking his coat and shoes with him. The rodents seemed too busy on the floor to notice. Jordan saw that those on the bunks hardly moved, completely undisturbed by their fellow inmates torment.

He contemplated calling the _Defiant_ right then. He'd checked the barracks out. No Bashir. Just rats. No reason to stay. But one of them on the bunks was watching him. Apparently the noise had woken him up after all. "Don't let the block elder catch you up there," he warned. "He's killed people for less."

Jordan didn't know what to say. "Thanks," he finally managed. The man turned over and went right back to sleep. Jordan sat up there the rest of the night, holding his bleeding toe and trying to decide just how he'd gotten himself into this. He didn't sleep. It was too dangerous to sleep.

His tricorder warned him with three clicks when it was 0400. The rats by then were gone, or quiet, and the men had all gone back to sleep, trying to catch a little rest before they had to get up for work. Jordan slipped on his coat quietly and tapped his comm badge five times. He counted the seconds before the _Defiant_'s transporter beam caught him. He didn't even make it to ten.

* * *

Dax stood inside one of the warehouses. She'd been transported there because it was empty, at least empty of people. No one would see her beam in. It was still early and the prisoners had not yet come to work. But it wasn't empty. It held shoes. From floor to ceiling, from wall to wall. Thousands, hundreds of thousands of pairs of shoes. Some were small, the shoes of children who were still too young to walk. Some were fancy, shoes meant for a dance or social function but not for work. Some were summer shoes, some were winter. Others were ordinary, everyday shoes. Some were brightly colored. Others were simply brown, the color of the leather used to make them.

Dax had never seen so many shoes. She thought about the people she'd seen in Bialystok ghetto. They had survived the transports thus far. They were still safe in the semi-freedom the ghetto walls provided. Hungry, but safe. But had they lost their children, their parents to places like this? Were these their shoes?

Dax had lived for seven lifetimes, most of them on Trill. But some of her hosts had traveled extensively throughout the Federation and now beyond. She'd seen death. She'd seen famine. She'd seen the devastation of the Cardassian Occupation of Bajor and a whole planet inflicted with an terminal disease by the Dominion. But nothing yet had prepared her for those shoes.

She stood there transfixed by the immense pile that even spilled out the open doors. She didn't move, not until she heard the voices. Yelling. Someone was yelling. Dax forced herself to turn, leaving the shoes behind. She stepped out into the dim sunlight of Poland's winter morning. The smoke was acrid here. This area, Kanada, as it was called by the workers, was near the back of the camp, near where they burned the bodies of the gassings that took place in the main camp and in the abandoned farmhouse here in Birkenau. It was so near, she could see it from this section of the camp. She had only to walk a little to the north.

Another building she saw was overflowing with suitcases, another with what looked at first like straw. As she walked closer, she could see that it was hair. Human hair, piled as high as the shoes. A worker passed her, head down. She walked fast, but Dax grabbed her arm. "Where are the clothes taken after they're sorted?" she asked.

The woman had grown stiff when Dax touched her. She stood shaking now, afraid to answer. She didn't even look up. Dax quickly released her arm, hoping that she hadn't hurt the woman. The woman turned and pointed to another large warehouse a little further down the road. "Thank you," Dax said. "You may go."

The woman scurried away, obviously anxious to be out of Dax's sight. Dax wondered who she was, what kind of life she had led before coming here. Was she someone's daughter, someone's wife? Was she a mother? Did she have to sort her children's shoes?

She turned away. She couldn't help the woman. Right or wrong, this time had already happened and the woman belonged here. Only Julian could be saved. Julian didn't belong. The building the woman pointed to was not far away, so she walked there. She didn't know exactly why she had asked about the clothes. She hadn't even known for sure there would be such a place. Perhaps she'd only find a large pile of clothes spilling out the doors into the muddy streets just like the shoes. But she felt she should do it. There were no men here working, not until the next transport of shoes and clothes and hair came. She would take the time to have a look through the clothes.

She was surprised when she entered to find an orderly warehouse, with clothes hung from bars or folded on shelves. It looked more like a primitive store than had the other warehouses. A single woman was working there. She was startled by the opening of the door, but she hurried over to Dax. She dropped her head and gave a report.

Dax ignored the woman's words as she looked at the hanging clothes. There were fur coats and leather jackets, silk shirts and ties. Scarves and vests. "Is there something in particular you are looking for?" the woman asked, still not looking up. She sounded just like a store clerk, Garak in his shop, only she cowered with fear even as she offered her services.

"I need a gift," Dax said, making something up. "I want to just look around."

"Of course," the woman said. "If you find something, please tell me so that I can mark it down. If the inventory is not correct--"

Dax held up a hand to stop her, remembering her role. "I don't need you to remind me of what will happen if the inventory isn't correct. If you don't mark it down, I'll report you myself."

The woman nodded and left, scurrying back to her work. _Like little frightened animals_, Dax thought, and she was ashamed that she invoked such fear. But she knew it wasn't really her. It was the uniform and all the others who had worn it here. Dax wasn't willing to hurt anyone, she was only sharing the persona for awhile.

She turned her back on the woman and moved further into the warehouse. She passed the coats and looked through the jackets. There were leather ones, and wool ones, jackets for fighting the cold or for just conducting business. There was nothing unusual for the time. She wasn't sure why she was hoping to find Julian's jacket. It had been five weeks. His jacket may have been sent back to Germany. There was little chance that it remained here, waiting for some SS officer to choose it as a gift.

Still, she felt compelled to keep looking. She moved on to the shirts, skipping by all the silk shirts and regular cotton shirts. There were sweaters, more like what she was looking for. A swatch of color caught her eye. Blue, bright blue. She knew it. It was the same color as her own uniform back in her quarters on the _Defiant_. She pushed the other clothes out of the way revealing the colored shirt. It was a long-sleeved, high collared shirt, with a zipper running up the front. And it was a material never seen before in this time on this planet. It was Julian's.

"I want this," Dax yelled. The woman hurried over. She looked at the shirt.

She was a brave woman, Dax decided, because she didn't bother to hide her obvious distaste for the fashion. "It's not very flattering, but it's sure to be warm."

"It's an interesting material," Dax said. "Have you found anything else like it? Maybe in black."

"Yes, ma'am. There was a whole suit like it," the woman answered, showing some excitement. "A very unusual outfit, if I may." She began to walk away, taking the shirt with her. Dax followed. She went to a shelf loaded with folded trousers. It only took her a few minutes of sorting through the black ones to find the pants to Julian's uniform. Dax felt her eyes begin to tear, but she fought it. She wondered if maybe she had passed his shoes earlier.

The woman held the pants up for her inspection. Dax admitted they were unusual but made a show of feeling the fabric. "My brother is a textile manufacturer. He's always looking out for something new. He'll be very excited by this." But she hadn't seen the jacket. "You said there was a whole outfit. Was there a jacket perhaps or a vest?"

The woman thought for a moment and then remembered. "Yes, a jacket, but it was damaged."

Dax's heart jumped. Had he been shot? But she looked at the shirt the woman still held. No holes. No blood. "Damaged how?"

"One of the sleeves was missing," she answered. "Unless it was supposed to be that way. It was a very unusual suit."

"I want it for the fabric," Dax explained. "Not the suit. I'd like the jacket, too."

The woman looked up at her briefly and then dropped her eyes. Her voice fell to barely a whisper. Fear had returned. "It's not here, ma'am. It was damaged. It couldn't be repaired. We didn't have the fabric."

Dax stopped her again. "Where is it?"

"With the scrap, ma'am."

Dax thought for a few moments. She didn't really need the jacket. She hadn't needed the shirt or pants either. It was just that they were Julian's. She wanted to take them home. She wanted the jacket, too, no matter how many sleeves it had. "Find it. You have until this evening before roll call. I'll return for it and those things, wrapped, if you don't mind."

"But ma'am, I'm supposed to. . . ." The woman was stammering now.

Dax ignored her arguments. She had the uniform. She had the power. "Then get someone else to look for it. One day. If you can't find it today, then I'll just take those. But I want her to look hard for it." She looked at the woman. She was neither frail nor overly thin. _They must get more food here_, she thought. Still, Dax didn't know what else to offer the woman for incentive. "I'll give you each a loaf of bread if it's found. Not that stale garbage you usually get. A fresh loaf. One for each of you. You can eat it or trade it. I don't care. But I want the fabric."

She waited for the woman to nod, and then turned on her heels and walked out the door. She sighed once the door closed behind her. She felt ashamed for bullying the woman but exhilarated at finding Julian's uniform. They could know for sure that he was here, at least. Or he had been here. Either way, they were getting closer. She felt now that they would find him. Dead or alive. They'd find him or find out what happened to him.

* * *

Max lifted one of the bags and threw it down from the truck. He'd already fumbled through it at the platform. There was no food inside. None of the bags he'd found had any food. The people on the train must have been very hungry. Perhaps they had come from a ghetto, half-starved before they arrived. Or maybe the other prisoners had simply gotten to the food first. This one was a bag full of clothes, summer clothes for children, a towel and wash cloth for cleaning and an extra pair of shoes. There were other things, trinkets, memories, but Max hadn't had time to look at everything. He wasn't supposed to be looking through them at all.

As he grabbed the next bundle--a bundle of blankets, dirty and smeared with filth, but still warmer than anything he had in the barracks--Max looked up at the complex of buildings that housed all those things they removed from the trains. Perhaps Hana's doll was there somewhere or the pictures from his wedding. Sophie's hair.

Max pushed the thoughts out of his mind. Memories like that only caused pain. He threw the blankets down and reached for the next bundle. But he still looked at the buildings. A door opened. An SS woman walked out. But she didn't walk like an SS. She walked like a woman.

She was tall. The hair under her cap was dark. She turned to where Max was working. She was not so far away that Max couldn't see her face. She was attractive, with a slim face and expressive eyes. Max was drawn to those eyes. They expressed a lot of things as they watched the men working. None of them was hatred.

She walked closer, turning her head as she scanned each man working. Everyone who saw her worked faster. Pretty or not, she could kill any of them for being lazy. But Max kept watching. She didn't yell at them. She didn't say anything. In fact, she seemed to be looking for something, or looking for someone. All the others turned away from her, trying to be nothing more than the baggage they worked on. But Max had the feeling it wouldn't be a bad thing to be the one she was looking for. Still, he knew enough not to push his luck. No one got that uniform easily. He put his head down and worked too, but he watched her from the corner of his eye.

She stayed there the whole morning, walking from one end of the area to the other. When it was nearly time for the noonday meal, she turned slowly away. She took a few steps, but stopped. She turned back and caught Max's eye as he watched her. He froze. His mind told him to work, to work harder now than he even felt he could. But his body just wouldn't move. She held him there for a minute in her eyes. Then she sighed and turned away again. She disappeared from view, and Max went back to work.

* * *

Bashir checked his ankle when they sat down for lunch. It would be too dark by the time they returned to the barracks. He wanted to see it in the light. But he didn't want the SS to see him checking it. Heiler, of course, knew the extent of his injuries, but the other SS might not have. If he did, he might label him unfit for work and Julian would go to the gas. He waited until they were away, eating lunch themselves, and then he pulled off his mud-caked clog and lifted his leg to his other knee. The original swelling had gone down. But the double-time marching and the walking and work had jarred the shin too much. The bruise had begun to bleed again, and he could see the blood pooling on either side of his ankle near the heal. He couldn't see his ankle at all on one side. It was swollen.

He finished his lunch, pouring the last of the foul, cold soup down his parched throat. It was time to work again. But he decided he would try the hospital again, after roll call. If he could get in, he was sure he could get a bandage. There was nothing much to do for the bruise except to wrap his ankle and stay off of it. Staying off of it was impossible, but wrapping was something he could do.

* * *

It was getting late. Nearly the whole away team was assembled. Only two were missing. Lieutenant Jordan had just left as the others were returning. Sisko worried about him after the last night. He'd come back with an injury and a story of a meter-long rat that liked to eat people. And yet he was still willing to go back. Sisko admired his dedication. But he wished he was the one to go instead. He was a man of action, generally speaking, and was not given to sitting around while others worked. But he was black, and, for the first time in his life, that made a difference. It limited his ability to perform his duty. It limited his freedom, and he did not like it.

Dax was the other one who had not arrived yet, and Sisko worried about her more than Jordan. Jordan had an explanation for not being there. Dax did not. Something might have happened. Thomas had tried to reassure him. The inmates wouldn't dare hurt her, they were too frightened of her. But Sisko feared the Nazis, not the prisoners. Every time his crew went down, he worried that they would lose their cover, that someone would ask them too many questions and they would end up in Block 11 where the Gestapo interrogated its prisoners. Thomas had already told him what she heard in there.

And Dax was late. After fifteen minutes, Sisko was forced to leave the transporter room and meet the away team in the mess hall. They were tired and hungry and wanted to get through their debriefing so they could shower and go to sleep. The days started early down on the planet. Sisko left word with the transporter officer to tell him as soon as Dax called for transport. He hoped she would call soon.

The mess hall was packed. There were only a few empty seats. Most of the away team had stripped off their coats and jackets and were sitting in their shirt sleeves. They looked less like Nazis that way. Sisko appreciated it. Kira was there as well. She looked just as frustrated as he was. He knew she wanted to be on the planet, too. But since women were less needed than men, there was no point trying to cover her nose so she could pass for Aryan.

There was little new to report, unfortunately. Bashir had not been spotted in any of the work details they had seen. A cumulative record was being kept of each of the groups and their possible destinations for work. They didn't want to waste time by searching the same kommando twice. Half the group had given their report by the time Dax's call came. Sisko blew out a long breath and then answered.

"Nice to hear from you, Old Man," Sisko chided. "You're alright?"

"I'm fine, Benjamin," her voice assured him. "I'll meet you in the mess hall."

No one spoke as they waited for her to arrive. They were becoming quite a loyal bunch, Sisko noted proudly. They had been concerned, too.

The door hissed open and Dax stood before them. She was still dressed as SS from head to toe, but she was smiling as if to say, "See, I told you I was fine." But her eyes didn't share the amusement. They carried instead a sadness in them, but also a hint of hope. She clutched a brown paper package to her chest, hugging it tightly.

She stepped inside and handed the package to Sisko. She didn't explain the gift, and she didn't sit down. She was waiting for him to open it. "What is it, Old Man?"

"Julian's," she answered in a small whisper.

Sisko tore the wrapping open and was met with black cloth. He pushed the wrapping aside, absently letting it fall off the table. He was more concerned with the cloth. He unfolded it and held it up. The gray, quilted shoulders of a Starfleet uniform became visible first and then one of the sleeves fell out. The other sleeve was missing, torn away where the gray quilting met the black cloth.

Everyone was silent, and Sisko found he couldn't speak either. But his breath began to quicken in his chest and his face became hot. All the previous clues had pointed to the fact that Julian was in the camp, but until now they'd had nothing conclusive, nothing that would say it was definitely their doctor. But there was no mistaking this. The Nazis had him. And Sisko wanted him back.

The blue undershirt was just beneath the jacket and Kira grabbed it quickly. She unfolded it and laid it out on the table. Sisko noted that it still had both sleeves. Kira was running her hands over every inch, checking it carefully.

"It's fine," Dax said, breaking the silence. "I already checked. No holes, no blood. It's fine."

* * *

Lieutenant Jordan hadn't given up his nighttime mission. He'd just altered it somewhat to avoid dealing with the rats all night. He showed up at the barracks just after roll call and moved among the inmates until time for curfew. He was able to see most of the inmates that way, as they ate dinner and socialized. He also planned to show up at the latrines in the morning, even though they smelled worse than even the smoke. Everyone came to the latrines, and he would watch their faces as they marched out again.

He started by watching the line of men as they waited for their rations. He could see what they ate, the dirty hands they ate with. He knew they didn't have a choice, but it still sickened him to watch it. He didn't bother getting in line himself, even though his disguise might require it. They needed the food, lousy as it was, more than he did. He had a nice enough bed back on the _Defiant_, and a replicator in the mess hall that could make anything he wanted for dinner. Of course, he hadn't used it yet today. He felt he needed to look thinner. He needed to look hungry even if he didn't act it. He would only eat once a day until they left this place. That was the promise he'd made to himself.

He didn't see Bashir in the line, so he went inside and looked around the bunks. He couldn't see the top bunk, but he didn't think it wise to stand on the wall. He'd been warned about what the block elders thought of that. But most of the men weren't lying down yet. They sat up on the upper bunk, dangling their legs over the side and Jordan could look up at them. He also listened to what was being said as he passed. He'd gotten Chief O'Brien to alter his already modified badge so that he could toggle the translator on and off at will. He turned it off now and listened for words he understood, English words that would indicate if the doctor was among the inmates.

The block elder emerged, and Jordan turned the translator back on. The block elder yelled that the door would be locked in ten minutes. Jordan walked quickly toward the door, not wanting to run and show too much energy. He had to push his way out, since everyone else was pushing their way in. But he watched their faces as he passed, especially the ones who were taller than himself. He thought about the meeting of the away team last night. He hadn't been there, of course, but he'd read the report earlier in the day. Bashir had been to the hospital. Barker had reported that the Jewish doctor there had not said that he was injured, but that he'd treated the injury. Still, Jordan thought it might be a good clue to keep his eye out for injuries as well. Once he was finally outside, he stopped just past the door. Each man would have to pass him as he went in.

Some still stood milling around, staring blindly at the world in front of them. They made no move to go inside. Some were helped by friends who led them inside. Others were simply left to themselves. They were so thin, like skeletons covered thinly with tight-stretched skin. If they weren't wearing shirts, Jordan felt sure he could have counted every one of their ribs. They were pale, he could see that even in the dim light outside. He hadn't seen them in the line for food. They were starving. They were already dead. Thomas had told them about these, to not be surprised when they saw them. Muslims, they were called, or Muselmen. The walking dead.

Jordan watched the last of the healthier inmates pass through the door. The block functionary there began to move toward the door to lock it, but one of the Muslims was still standing, making no move to enter. Jordan hadn't wanted to go back in. He'd have to wait then and hope for a clear moment to transport. He certainly didn't want to still be there when the rats came. But he couldn't leave that man out in the snow no matter how close to dying he already was.

The man didn't even seem to notice when Jordan touched his shoulder. "It's time to go in now," Jordan told him, letting the translator change his words to German. He turned the man around and the man didn't resist. So he steered him through the still opened door. The functionary locked it once they were in, and Jordan was left to take a place on the floor once more.

* * *

By morning, the entire crew knew. Dr. Bashir was, or had been, somewhere in Auschwitz, most likely Birkenau, and the _Defiant_ would not be leaving until the away team either found him or conclusive evidence of his death. While most weren't heartened at the idea of remaining in this century, there were no more complaints. Everyone who remained on board the ship carried out his or her duty with renewed conviction. They were back to double shifts now, sixteen hour days, taking over the duties of their fellow crewmates who were already leaving again for the planet's surface.

Word was leaking out about conditions in the camp. The away team could be heard discussing it over dinner or just before breakfast. Kira listened intently and read every word of every report. The more she heard and read, the more she felt the sense of dread and horror that had filled her at Gallitep. She had thought that she would never confront anything so horrible the rest of her life. Gallitep was the pinnacle, the epitome of cruelty, degradation, and murder. But with every report, she found that Auschwitz was eclipsing it, a feat she would never had thought possible.

It was huge, that camp down there. Birkenau, itself, had more inmates than Gallitep. And that was the living. Whole trainloads had passed its gates only to die in the gas chambers in the old farmhouse at the north end of the camp. And the Nazis were in the process of building four more chambers with crematoria attached. No more need for funeral pyres. They would burn the people in ovens. The first of the four, according to the computer library and the evidence provided by the away team, would be finished early next week. The Gypsies, an ethnic group Kira had only heard about from Thomas's short lecture, would be the first to try it out.

She had gotten sick the first day she had entered Gallitep and was confronted by the survivors. She had had nightmares for weeks from the things she had seen and from the stories they told her. But it had all made her fight harder for her people and her world.

Now she felt helpless and frustrated. She had her duties on the _Defiant_, but they were minor and ordinary, little more than monitoring systems. She hated just sitting still. Every moment she got she studied the map of the camp and records indicating what kind of activity went on within each of its boundaries. She and O'Brien discussed it sometimes over coffee before the captain came on duty. He was anxious, too, wanting to go down there and find his friend. Unlike her, he was not held back by his appearance or his species. He was held back by responsibility. He had to constantly reroute power from other systems to keep the warp drive up to specs. It was a priority Sisko insisted on. The ship had to be ready to leave as soon as Bashir was found.

Kira was not content with just staying on the ship. And she'd already worked out a plan with one of the nurses, Hausmann. If something went wrong, with either the away team or Julian--if he was still alive--then she would beam down, despite the risk. She had a uniform prepared and hanging in her quarters. Nurse Hausmann had synthesized skin ready to cover her nose ridges. She could be changed and ready in less than ten minutes. And she wasn't going to let Sisko or the Nazis hold her back.

* * *

__

Blocksperre was called again in the morning, and for nearly fifteen minutes, Bashir thought the changeling had decided to leave him at the mercy of the selection. The door remained locked and the inmates grew anxious. He was concerned about Szymon and hoped that he would be able to stifle his coughing and disguise his fever. If he'd been allowed, Bashir would have gone outside to get some snow and rub it onto Szymon's head to cool him down. But he was not allowed.

For himself, Bashir was neither worried nor relieved. If he stayed for the selection he would be sent to die. If not, he would be with her, and he never knew what that would mean. She changed more than her appearance at every meeting. As he waited, listening vaguely to the murmur of voices around him, he thought about what dying in the gas would be like. He remembered that it was a form of cyanide gas. Cyanide killed quickly, depending on the dosage and method of delivery. Ingested in concentrated form, it could kill instantly. But as a gas, in a large room--and he knew the size since he'd helped to build it--he wasn't sure. It would depend on the amount of gas, the number of people in the chamber. Would they all simply fall asleep or would they gasp in pain and panic and trample each other as they suffocated? He was hungry and tired, and it was hard to puzzle such things out.

He hadn't quite come to any conclusion when the door opened. A white-coated soldier entered. The selection. Everyone got down from their bunks and stood, hats off, at attention. The doctor was alone though. He'd always seen a group come together. The doctor took out a clipboard and read off a number. Bashir listened and then repeated it back to himself slowly translating the digits in his head. _Hundert tausand sieben hundert. . . ._ It was his number. And he was surprised at how much fear he still had inside of him. It was only when he stepped forward and got closer to the doctor that he recognized the face of Chief O'Brien.

* * *

It had taken two days of discussion and even the promise of certain favors--which she did not intend on carrying out--for Ensign Thomas to get permission to enter the Gestapo files. She'd nearly given up when the agent in charge had propositioned her. He was a particularly unattractive man, with a round face and greasy hair. His double chin seemed pinched by his collar and he reeked of insufficient personal hygiene.

It might take weeks to get the proper paperwork and permission, he had told her. He would have to write to Berlin to confirm her orders and identity. But if she were to agree to a more personal meeting, he'd try and speed things along. Perhaps it wouldn't be necessary to contact Berlin after all.

The thought of lowering herself to physical bribery had sickened Thomas, but she had kept her reaction to herself. German women were expected to bear ethnically pure children for the Fatherland and _Füher_. She could hardly afford to act a prude in her current disguise. She agreed, but haggled with him over a time. She wasn't free until evening, after roll call. One of the _Blockfüherinen_ was leaving early for weekend leave, and Thomas was needed to count the women in her block. But she would meet him later in his office here.

But, of course, she planned to be back on the _Defiant_ by that time. All of which meant, she had to find something good today. She could not return tomorrow without having to again face this man who might, at the least, wonder why he'd been jilted and keep her out of the records again. At worse, he could demand a more timely payment for his kindness.

She was glad he had other business to attend to and had not accompanied her personally into the office where the records were filed. She didn't want to waste any time, though, in case he changed his mind about waiting or someone else decided they needed the office. She found the B files quickly and rifled through them, hoping that the doctor's name wouldn't be there, and just in case it was, that he had used his real name. It was. And he had.

But the file was in German and though she knew some, reading it was still very difficult. Besides the Nazis often used euphemisms and jargon that she wouldn't have learned in any language course. She would have to scan the files for translation back on the ship. Things would have been easier on their first trip to Berlin if that had been possible. Stevens, in Engineering, had suggested a portable scanning device, like the late-twentieth century computers had. He replicated one and managed to update it a bit. The original was too bulky and required an external power source. The modified one was a work of genius, at least in Thomas's eyes. Stevens had gotten creative. He not only made it smaller and gave it an internal power supply, but he designed it to fit into the clip of the Luger she carried. She just hoped she didn't need to shoot anyone.

Before she used the scanner however, she checked the door again, placing her ear to the wood and listening for movement. She heard nothing. She quickly laid the file open right there in the drawer. She drew her weapon and snapped the clip out. One by one she held the clip over the documents, scanning them into the memory of the tricorder she carried in another pocket. The scanner was slow, by Starfleet standards, but she couldn't complain. That would be impolite. It was a relatively thin file, all told, and it only took her a few minutes to scan the whole thing. She closed the folder and replaced it in the cabinet.

Once that was done, she knew she had to go back out and face that Gestapo man. She really hoped he was too busy with something to talk to her. She wanted to just slip past him quietly. But then she remembered, she wouldn't have to slip out at all. She could simply disappear, transport to the ship and download the information. No, it would be sloppy. The man knew she had come in. She had to go back out, otherwise she'd cause confusion and, most likely, suspicion. So, after straightening her uniform and checking to make sure all her modern gear was stowed safely away, she put on what she hoped was a sly, see-you-later smile and placed her hand on the door knob.

She stopped though, frozen by a memory of another door opening on a cold, dark street to desolation and fear. It was a strange sensation but one she was having more and more often. She was starting to realize now that it wasn't just a dream. She was remembering. It had to be a memory from the ghetto before she had been attacked on the train. It faded quickly though, without giving her any answers. She decided she would ask Dax that evening, or maybe Novak. Right now, she had a duty to perform. She replaced her smile and opened the door.

* * *

Bashir had known better than to take that face at face value. O'Brien and his shipmates were gone. Besides, the chief hadn't said anything as they left the barracks, and he wouldn't have known anything about _Blocksperre _or that there was going to be a selection. Bashir had reasoned then, that it was just Heiler trying out a new face, a new game with which to torment him. Using O'Brien's voice, the Irish lilt that still visited sometimes in Bashir's restless dreams, she had told him to wait and left him standing near the fence and in easy view of one of the guard towers. She had spoken quietly so that the Ukrainian guard in the tower wouldn't overhear. Dropping the accent, and slipping back into German, she yelled something to the guard. Then O'Brien, the changeling, had left him to stand in the early morning stillness with the sun barely topping the horizon.

It had been three hours, and the guard had watched him carefully for every minute of them. His gun never wavered from pointing directly at Bashir's chest. Perhaps O'Brien had offered him some especially nice bribe to watch him so carefully. Or maybe he simply enjoyed his work. Whatever the reason, the man did what he was told.

The changeling, once again as _Scharfüher_ Heiler, returned after another hour, when the sun was well up into the sky somewhere behind the billows of smoke. Bashir was so stiff by then that he could barely move when she told him to follow her. He had no other plans for the day, so he followed, wondering idly if she would kill him today. He didn't have far to go. She led him to the latrine building. Everyone else was at roll call or locked in the barracks so the place was empty.

Heiler's body changed into that of Whaley and the changeling sighed. Bashir said nothing, nor did he move at all. He watched her carefully though. She looked around her noting the filth and mud. "I don't have legs," she said. "So you wouldn't expect these would get tired." She sighed again and Bashir could tell she was in one of her gloomy moods. Still, she was just as unpredictable. She could just spend the day talking to him. Or she might decide he hadn't yet been punished enough for whatever crimes the solids had committed against her people. Selection or not, he could very well end up dead.

She was watching him. "You could show a little sympathy," she admonished. "This takes effort, you know. Being solid is your natural form. It takes more work for us." She turned away from him, slowly pacing the length of the building. "Did you know I volunteered for this mission. I thought I could do it. It's not just replacing people. That part is easy. Even learning everything about you solids only takes a few days. But it's so hard being alone."

She came back to him, standing close. She sounded tired and even sincere. He didn't care. Loneliness was the least of what she deserved. "You know, in the Link," she continued, "one of your centuries was so short. It flew by. A decade was the wink of an eye, if we had had them. But now. . . ." She let her voice drop off. When she resumed it was with a greater sense of despair. Bashir had never seen her so emotional. "Now, I'm alone. It's only been a few weeks and it's an eternity. Four hundred years!" she exclaimed, emphasizing each word. "Four hundred and thirty actually. I thought I could stand to be away from the Link, but now. . . . It's hard when you're alone."

She stopped as if waiting for a reply. Bashir didn't speak. She would probably hit him for it. But he was sure she would hit him for anything he said, so there was no point wasting his breath on words. She turned her head, distracted by some distant noise that Bashir could no longer hear. "We have to move," she said. She took him by the arm and pushed him out the door.

The wind was strong now, blowing ice across his face and stinging at his eyes. It was nothing new. That had been happening since the day he arrived in this time. He imagined it would continue to the day he died. Spring could not come to Auschwitz. She led him into another barracks. Its inmates had already gone off to work. Like all the barracks he had ever seen, including his own, it was scarcely cleaner than the latrines. She leaned back against one of the bunks and watched him. Bashir, once again, simply stood where she had left him, just inside the door.

"You're not much for conversation, are you?" she said. An edge had come into her tone. "I probably should have left you in your barracks. You should be thanking me for saving your useless life. And this isn't the first time. You haven't thanked me once."

That was a good point, Bashir decided. Not that part about thanking her, but the saving of his life. She had done it several times now, but she had also nearly killed him just as many times or more. He didn't feel the need to thank her, but he was curious as to why she did it. She obviously wanted him to be punished, and yet she stopped on the brink of his death every time. Even when he had been willing to give up himself, she had forced him to the hospital for two days of recuperation. He had noted the selection the next day. She had saved him then as well. But why?

Bashir opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. Whaley watched him expectantly. "Wh--I don't understand," he said finally, remembering that a question would earn him a blow, "why you bother to save me."

She didn't even have to think about her answer, and, by her tone, an unknowing observer might have thought the two of them had been friends for years. "You're the only one I can talk to," she said. "No one else here knows me. I can be myself with you." She smiled. "Or anyone else, for that matter.

"Still," she warned, "I wouldn't get too comfortable if I were you. I will last the four hundred and thirty years. You, on the other hand,--" She didn't finish the sentence, but Bashir knew what she meant. He would die eventually, whenever she grew tired of him. "I think, when I do get back to the Link, that we'll have a lot to learn from this place." She started pacing again. "Yes, a lot to learn. You're a pretty good test of such facilities actually. You escaped from our prison camp, you and that Cardassian friend of yours. We should have killed him immediately. But I can see now that we were much too lenient with you. Except for that period in isolation, you were allowed to walk around freely. You're a murderer, a vile being who can't even keep his own word, and we treated you like a guest. This place has been much more effective."

Forgetting himself, Bashir glanced up at her at that accusation. He immediately dropped his eyes again, but she had already seen it. "Yes, you. Do no harm. Isn't that what your oath says, the one you hold higher than even your oath to Starfleet? You harm. You murder. You were at the helm when the Jem'Hadar first boarded the _Defiant_ three years ago. You fired the weapons that destroyed one of our vessels. How many do you think you killed then?" She let her voice raise, ignoring the fact that someone might overhear. "And what about Odo? You destroyed him without even a hint of remorse!"

Bashir's brow furrowed as he tried to imagine what she meant. Odo was a friend. He would never hurt him willingly.

"I meant your supervisor," she explained slowly, as if dealing with a dense child, "in ore processing. You stole a phaser from one of the guards and shot him, full power."

He remembered now. The alternate universe, the one where humans were slaves and Kira had wanted him tortured to death on the Promenade. He remembered talking with one of the nurses about it a millennium ago, before all this happened. She knew about that. How could she know? Had she read the thoughts in his face or in his mind? Unless perhaps she had been the nurse. Perhaps he had been talking to her.

"We replaced you," she stated, as if it were obvious. "We know everything you know. We know all about your enhanced DNA and even that stuffed bear you keep in your quarters. Don't you think you're a little old for that?"

Agitated that they had gotten off on a tangent, she pulled the one-sided conversation back around to Bashir's crimes. "Even here you harm people, your fellow prisoners."

Bashir closed his eyes, not wanting to hear anymore. He had done all those things, but none of them had been murder. He had shot down the Jem'Hadar ship to save the _Defiant_ and the lives of its crew. He had shot that other Odo in self-defense. And Piotr. . . . _No_, he told himself. _She shot Piotr_.

"But it was your refusal to carry out the order that I gave you that killed him. You knew the terms. You let him die."

"I . . . I couldn't decide," Bashir stammered in a whisper. "You didn't give me a chance."

"You obey here!" she yelled. "You don't have to decide! You do what you're told. Did you have time to decide when you killed Odo? Or did you just shoot? Did you question your captain when he told you to fire? Oh, you care so much for your precious Piotr or that Frenchman. Jews! Whose lives were over once the war began. They had no future, no worth! But do you care for my people? Do their deaths cause you grief?"

She dropped her voice. "You want to know why I save your life, you who aren't worth one tenth of even one of the lives you destroyed? I save your life so you can pay for them. But I promise you this, " she said, coming so close that he could feel the air when when she spoke, "you will never live again outside these fences. But you will live until then." As she spoke she began to unbutton the first two buttons on his coat and on his shirt. Bashir did nothing to stop her. Anything he tried would only cause him pain.

"On the day they come to save you, the Soviets or the Americans or anyone else, that's the day I will kill you." She placed her hand directly on his chest and he was surprised by the cold of it. It felt fake, like some synthetic thing, a piece of rubber placed against his skin. "But" she continued, speaking almost seductively "until then you will live, and your days and nights will be filled with pain and the memories of all that has been taken from you." Her lips were so close to his cheek that, had she been someone else, she might have kissed him. But he knew her better than that, and he feared her touch even before it began to pierce his chest.

It was small at first, a mere pinprick, and he felt more nausea than pain when she slowly poured the thin band of herself into him, squirming like a worm between his ribs. His instinct said to grab her hand and pull it away, but to touch the SS was not allowed. His hands twitched as she writhed inside him, and his breath caught in his throat. His chest began to burn as the band in him thickened and moved its way toward his heart. Now it was pain, made worse by the horror of what was happening. He wanted to pull away but it was as if another hand had gone inside him and took hold of his heart. His knees trembled but he willed himself not to fall, afraid that his heart would be ripped from his chest if he did.

He struggled to breathe against the pain and the foreign thing inside him. His heart pounded against the pressure he felt. His left arm was going numb. He looked at her. She had to stop or she would kill him and break her promise. But she stood directly in front of him, staring coldly into his eyes. She was neither smiling nor snarling. Her face was a blank, a stone wall as cold as his cell in Block 11.

He fell, but she released her grip, letting the strand of herself pull back until it found a grip on one of his ribs. She pulled him up that way, her hand still flat against his chest, until his face was again inches from hers. She was fuzzy. His eyes wouldn't focus. She changed. A man stood before him now, his face a contradiction to the uniform he was wearing. "Do you recognize this face?" Whaley's voice asked. When he didn't answer, she pulled him closer. "Do you recognize this face?"

It was the face of a prisoner, one of the others who shared the bunk with Max and Bashir. He was the last of its original inhabitants. All the others before Bashir's arrival had died. Bashir nodded weakly. He couldn't answer. He could hardly breathe.

"Follow it in the morning," she said, keeping the prisoner's face. "We've been transferred." She changed again, back to Heiler and pulled the strand back into her hand. With nothing to hold him up, Bashir fell, pinning his left shoulder beneath him. He made no move to rise or even to roll over.

"Don't be late back to your barracks," Heiler told him, still speaking with Whaley's voice. Bashir didn't see him leave, but he heard the door close.

* * *

Chief O'Brien was still working on the warp drive. They had the minimum power they would need to get back to the twenty-fourth century now, but O'Brien wasn't satisfied. He didn't want the minimum. The minimum didn't leave room for errors, and until they got to a starbase, this ship was going to be full of errors. They were becoming easier to predict now, but half-way around that sun approaching warp ten was not the time to have to try and prevent one. Now was. The ship could rest and save her strength while the engineering crew worked to give her more.

O'Brien wanted to reach at least the middle range of the required engine strength. He'd like to get it higher than that, but the changeling had really torn things apart. As things stood, it would take three minutes just to break orbit and then nearly 40 seconds more to switch from impulse to warp. Six minutes before they reached the threshold at which the ship would be thrown forward in time. It wasn't good enough.

O'Brien, due to his duty shift, had not been at the debriefing meeting the senior staff and away team had every night. But he'd seen the uniform. The nursing staff had it laid out on one of the biobeds in sickbay. They had made the excuse first of scanning it, seeing if they could detect any injury to the doctor or any residue of gas. They had, happily, detected neither, but the uniform hadn't moved.

O'Brien knew what they were up to. Bashir had made friends with the senior staff, and he was close to them. But the medical staff was his staff. He worked with them everyday. He knew each of their names when O'Brien didn't, when maybe even the captain didn't. They were there when he stayed up all night with a patient. They shared his devotion to medicine like none of the senior staff could. Not one member of his staff, Federation or Bajoran, had ever asked for a transfer. Some of them had even asked to be transferred to his staff, not to DS Nine and not to the _Defiant_. But to Julian. He was their doctor, and the uniform was a tribute to him, a way of saying they hadn't given up and they hadn't forgotten.

O'Brien appreciated the tribute. Each day that went on, each clue they found, made Julian's death more real. And O'Brien was ninety percent sure that he was dead. He hadn't been able to go down to the planet, but he'd read every report, smelled the odor the away team's uniforms left in the corridors. He saw their faces just before they beamed down to that place. He had even found a report on the computer, a document smuggled out of the camp just this month that survived after the war. Twenty thousand people, it claimed, had died in Auschwitz since the beginning of the year. Julian was just one man, and a kind man, more apt to give away his food and starve himself than to watch others go hungry. He was not the sort to fight over a piece of bread or sit silently in the face of cruelty.

The ten percent that still held hope was in two things. Julian's experience in the Jem'Hadar internment camp and his genetic enhancements. Julian had protested a decrease in rations for the prisoners which resulted in a stint in isolation. Maybe he had learned from that what speaking out could do in a such a situation. Maybe he had learned to just exist quietly and keep his head down. Maybe he survived that way. And maybe his enhanced stamina gave him strength when around him others were losing theirs. Maybe he didn't have to have as much food to function.

These were the two things that O'Brien held on to while he waited for news of his friend. But his doubt led him back to sickbay after his shift was up. The nurse watched him when he entered, but she didn't ask him if she could help him as she usually would have. She could tell he hadn't come as a patient. The uniform was still there, with the sleeves placed loosely across the torso of the jacket. In the dim light, at first glance, it was almost like Julian was lying there himself, but O'Brien knew that was just what he wanted to see. He stepped up to the bed and touched one of the sleeves, the blue one, for a moment. And then he did what he came there for. He held Julian's comm badge up to the light, looking at the marks scratched there once more before he placed it on the uniform. Then he walked away.


	14. Chapter 14

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Fourteen**

Ensign Thomas had returned to the ship that night before Jordan left for the camp. So for once, Jordan was there when the report was given. Doctor Bashir had been alive as late as the fifteenth of February. The Gestapo files recorded that he was detained for three days under suspicion of espionage before being returned to Birkenau. Unfortunately, the files made no mention of his prisoner number, his barracks, or the work detail he was assigned to. So, while the crew was a little more hopeful, they were no closer to actually finding him.

Jordan beamed back down and quickly joined with the next group of men. He was trying to make a systematic sweep of the barracks, working his way in rows from south to north a section at a time. He had begun in the southwestern corner, nearest to the construction site of the twin crematoria. He could see the tall chimney of the nearest one from where he stood. It looked finished, but the flames had not yet begun to shoot from its top. But Jordan knew, like they all knew, that eventually all four new crematoria would be finished, and then the slaughter would increase.

It would be so easy, he thought, to walk over there and blow the whole thing up and then just beam away. But he didn't know what consequences such an act would have in the years and centuries to come. It might change everything. It might make it better. Or it might make it worse. The only future they knew of for certain was their own past and, like it or not, that past included the Holocaust and too many other horrors to count. So in the coming weeks, that chimney would learn to glow and a million people would pass through this hell on their way to destruction.

* * *

__

Julian, the voice called to him. __

Go away, he thought. He knew the voice would not be able to hear him, but he couldn't make the words come out. All he could do, it seemed, was breathe. __

I'm not going away, Julian, the voice stated evenly. _You need me. _

Julian opened his eyes to see who had spoken. O'Brien was kneeling beside him. _I did need you, _Julian corrected, _but you've gone home. No one can help me now._

You're wrong, Julian, O'Brien said, taking a seat on the floor. _You can help you. And I'll stay here until you don't need me anymore. Now get up off the floor. _

Julian managed a hoarse whisper, "I can't." __

Yes, you can, O'Brien argued. _You've done it before. I've watched you. You always get back up. Haven't you noticed? _

Those two words had been very hard for Bashir, and, since he knew it wasn't really O'Brien he was speaking to, he stopped. O'Brien was just a thought he was having, so he answered in a thought. _Maybe if I don't get up, she won't knock me down again._

Maybe not, O'Brien conceded, smiling a little, _but you'll be trampled when everyone comes back after roll call. And they'll probably beat you to death for being in the wrong barracks. Please, Julian, get up. _

Julian couldn't argue with his reasoning. But at least when getting trampled, one only got hit on the outside. Julian closed his eyes, trying not to remember what it felt like to have that strand squirming around inside him. __

No, Julian, O'Brien admonished. Even with his eyes closed, Julian could see him. The Irishman leaned over to touch his shoulder, but of course, it didn't work. His hand passed right through. O'Brien was a ghost, or Julian was. Only one was real, and Julian felt unlucky in that he suspected it was himself. But O'Brien wouldn't simply go away just because he'd been called an apparition. _You have to get up. Now, Julian, get up! _

Julian decided that perhaps negotiation was in order. _If I get up, _he offered, _will you stop bothering me?_

Only when you're safe again.

But I'll never be safe again, Julian told him, rolling over. _Can't you see that? _"She'll kill me eventually," he whispered as he gasped for air. __

You've got to believe, Julian, O'Brien encouraged as Bashir lifted himself onto his knees with his good arm. The other hung loosely beside him. It ached and weighed at his side like a pendulum, but it hadn't dislocated this time. The bandages had held. _That's it! Keep going! _

Bashir could no longer argue, even in his mind. He was too busy trying to stand. The whole room seemed to wobble and shake, but he found the bunks with his hand and climbed his way back onto his feet. O'Brien hadn't left, and he smiled up at Bashir, clapping his hands together. _I knew you could do it, Julian._

* * *

Max had watched Bashir go that morning more confident this time that he would return relatively unharmed. Szymon was more of a concern. But he was a veteran of such selections, and he managed to hide his sickness from the doctors. For once, it was in the prisoners' favor that they only made a cursory inspection of one's health and physical condition. Szymon was dying. Max could tell even though he was no doctor at all.

Max had hoped to get some extra food during the day, thinking that a double-ration of bread would give Szymon strength. But the _Blocksperre_ had kept him away from the trains, and Max knew by now that strength was something you lost in Auschwitz. It was not something to regain. When night came, Szymon was coughing again, and Bashir had still not returned.

Just before curfew, Max heard the lock fall away from the door. Once again, he looked up to see Bashir standing in the doorway. It looked nearly the same as the night he returned from Block 11, when Vlad'a and he had had to pick Bashir up off the floor. Bashir walked slowly, but not with his usual, careful gait. He stumbled and, several times, nearly tripped on a hand or head on the floor. When he reached the bunk, Max reached down to help him climb. Bashir's eyes were unfocused, and his breathing seemed wrong. He was shaking when he finally climbed over the top railing and collapsed onto the bunk just as he had before. He didn't even take his shoes off.

Max leaned over to look at him. He could see no obvious injuries beyond what he'd had before. But he could see that Bashir's eyes were still opened. He stared straight ahead and hardly blinked. The days of rest he'd gotten in the hospital were used up. Bashir was a Muselman again. Max looked over at Szymon, his other dying friend, and found that Szymon had been watching the whole time. He met Max's gaze and then sighed, which started him coughing again. He laid back down and once again, Max was alone.

* * *

Thomas had at first decided against Novak. He would be searching the _Sonderkommando_ tomorrow. He didn't need her problems. Dax though, like the other women, was finished searching. There was nowhere left for the women to go where they wouldn't be questioned. It was up to the men now. Thomas was glad to be back in her Starfleet uniform. Tomorrow, she and the others would rejoin the duty roster. But tonight they could sleep.

But the duty roster also showed that Commander Worf was off duty. By tomorrow, Dax's shift and his would be incompatible. They only had this one night, and Thomas knew they would be together. She couldn't disturb them. So she kept her dreams and memories for one more day and went to bed. As sleep took her, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd broken a promise.

* * *

Novak beamed down early, he wanted to try and prepare himself. The ship would have been more comfortable, but he wanted more solitude than its corridors of tiny quarters could provide. It was never night there, either, not in the real sense. Night was a construction. And so there was no real morning either, and Novak wanted to be with the morning. He remembered how his grandmother used to rise early and begin baking bread even before the sun would rise. It was comforting to smell it baking while he was still under the warm feather comforter with the cat curled at his feet. He always felt serene there, at peace. And that was what he needed now before he went to search the _Sonderkommando_.

But it wasn't quite the same. From where he stood, on the edge of the camp, he could just see the light beginning to rise on the horizon. But it dissipated quickly in the smoke that hung overhead. There was no warm blanket. He turned up his collar to the cold breeze which stung at his nose and cheeks. The sweet, awful smell of burning flesh hung in the air too heavy to be moved by the breeze. There was no serenity to be found, no way to prepare.

The rest of the camp was just beginning to rise, but the _Sonderkommando_ was already busy at work. They were kept in a different part of the camp, separate from the other prisoners. They worked in shifts, right through the night and all day long, burning the bodies of the dead. Novak headed toward them and tried not to look at the bodies. He kept his eyes off the ground and only looked at the faces of the prisoners.

Like the others, their faces were gaunt, their cheeks sunken from hunger. But there was a difference born of their merciless work. Many of them dared to look right at him as he passed. There was no fear left in their eyes, and no hatred. Their eyes were cold, devoid of feeling. They had been forced beyond the boundary of decent men. They went about their work methodically, scarcely noting the people the bodies used to be. They pulled gold teeth from the mouths of men and cut the hair from women. Children who used to play were piled onto the fire with little effort. But their eyes told Novak that they saw everything. They felt everything and they knew that they would be made to walk into the gas as well. In a few months, someone else would be pulling their teeth and lifting them onto the fire.

* * *

Julian was still awake when Max shook him to wake him up. He had stayed awake the whole night, listening as O'Brien talked of his children, of the future, of the life Bashir might have lived. And with the first rustlings of the other prisoners rising, he'd watched O'Brien walk away. _Time for dreaming is over, Julian,_ he had said. _Now it's time to live._ But Bashir knew what he really meant. It was time to work, time to get up and eat a bird's rations and stand in the cold for three or four hours while all around men dropped dead. It was time to meet Heiler and let her beat him for working too slow. The initial pain of what she'd done was gone, leaving only a dull ache in his chest. He would be able to do all those things. But it wasn't life. Life was something that O'Brien could return to, but that Bashir never would.

Still, he got up. He joined the line for bread and ate it when it was given to him. He ignored Max and his looks of concern. He was beyond the need for concern, and Max's friendship could only end in the end of Max. Instead, Bashir looked for the man whose face the changeling had worn the day before. He kept his eye on him as he ate and followed him when he went to the latrine for fear of losing him in the crowd. He saw him come back out again just as the _Blockälteste_ began to herd them all toward the _Appellplatz_.

"Where are you going?" a raspy voice asked from behind.

Bashir turned only part way, he didn't want to lose sight of the other man. Szymon had asked the question. He was leaning on Max, kind Max, who helped the sick and condemned as if they were still in a normal world. "A new kommando," Bashir whispered to him. He didn't feel like speaking out loud. Bashir answered him because Szymon was sick. He knew that Szymon would die on his own with or without friendship from Bashir.

"What did Heiler do to you?" Szymon asked. __

Nothing I could tell you about, Bashir thought in answer. "What about you?" he asked in return. "The selection."

"We are still here," he answered, "Max and I."

"Try to stay warm, Szymon," Bashir suggested. "And get a good place in line for soup." Szymon smiled at him. Bashir didn't smile back. He wanted to tell him not to die today, but the words were too much. He turned to look toward the _Appellplatz_, but the man was gone. He'd have to try and find him again after roll call.

"_Los, los, zum Appellplatz!_" the _Blockälteste_ screamed, and the three of them ran to catch up to the block and join the ranks.

* * *

Jordan watched the others leave and ducked back inside the barracks. He slid under one of the bunks and hid there until he heard the block elder leave. He was just about to climb back out when he noticed another pair of eyes watching him from the end of the room closest to the door. They were young eyes, full of fear, but surrounded by the face of an old man._ This place will do that to you_, Jordan thought. He couldn't beam out as long as that young man was there.

Both of them lay there silently watching each other for perhaps half an hour before the boy spoke. "I can't go out there," the boy told him. He didn't have to speak loudly, Jordan could hear. "I can't."

Jordan didn't know what to say. He certainly wasn't going to squeal on the kid. He was hiding himself. The world outside was insane and brutal.

"They killed my father, you know," the boy said. "Yesterday, right in front of me. He was supposed to be in the next barracks. He came to give me an extra bit of bread. The block elder beat him, smashed his face in. Right in front of me."

"Shh," Jordan said. The boy was half-crazed and was beginning to speak louder. "They'll hear you." Still Jordan's stomach turned at what he had heard. He doubted the boy's sanity, he didn't doubt that he was telling the truth.

"And he took the bread," the boy nearly shouted. "Ate it with my father's blood still on his hands. They made me carry him outside. Did you see him last night, lying in the snow?"

Jordan shook his head. He couldn't tell the young man that he'd been in a different barracks the night before.

"Now there's no one," he said, quiet again. "My mother and my sisters are gone. They were too young. They went to the smoke. Now there is only me." He stopped and a gloomy silence filled the spaces beneath the bunks.

It was filled again by the sound of shouting and of feet running, slapping and slurping in the mud. The door burst open quickly and the boy froze. Jordan did too, though he reached his hand slowly into his pocket. They found the boy first and grabbed his feet. He screamed as they pulled him out. "Help me!" he shouted. "They'll kill me like they killed my father!" He tried to hold on to the bunk but there were two pairs of legs that Jordan could see. The boy wouldn't be strong enough. They pulled him free, and Jordan could hear the thump when they hit him.

"There's someone else!" he cried from where he was sprawled on the floor. "There!" He pointed right to where Jordan lay under the bunks.

"There was only one missing number," one of them argued, bending down to lift the boy. He struck him and again the boy fell.

"But he's there!" he choked out with obvious effort. A leather-booted foot caught him in the ribs.

"Go see," the leader sighed, and Jordan watched the other set of legs move down the barracks toward him. They still couldn't see him, not until they bent down. It was dangerous to try and beam out with them in the room, but there was no choice. All the second man had to do was bend over and look under the bunks. Jordan would be dragged out and beaten just like the boy. Of course, unlike the boy, he still had strength enough to fight back, but it would only cause more commotion, more attention, and he'd still be unable to beam back to the ship.

The boots came to the end of Jordan's bunk and stopped. Jordan tapped the comm badge in his pocket four times. When the man bent down to look underneath, he saw nothing. He snorted once. "It was some sort of trick," he called to the other man. "There's no one there." He returned to the other man and helped him to drag the barely conscious young man to the _Appellplatz_ to be counted with the others.

* * *

The more he walked among them, the more Novak found his eyes drawn to the bodies. He couldn't help it. Bashir might be one of them, too. But even the children drew his eyes. Their motionless forms shouted for his attention and broke his heart. He wanted to shout with them. Children were supposed to play, to laugh and learn. They were supposed to grow up, to become someone. They were the future and here they were slaughtered, being put into the fire. It was wrong and Novak silently, secretly raged against it.

He was glad when he could finally leave them, though he felt guilty for it. He felt he had betrayed them by keeping silent even though he knew his one voice would not stop the killing. He was sure he would see their faces for the rest of his life. But for now he left them and the sad men who burned them and moved on to crematoria. Only two of them were nearing completion. Number IV would be done within days, and its ovens were already being tested. The _Sonderkommando_ would work here as well, firing the ovens to test them for defects. Once the engineers were satisfied, the body-burning would start to take place inside, and the infamous chimneys of Auschwitz would spill forth their smoke filled with the ash of the children Novak had seen outside.

It was hot inside the building, and haunted, though no one had been gassed there yet. Novak wondered why the Nazis didn't feel it. Didn't the dead voices of the children follow them to bed at night? Didn't the screams of the women pierce their hearts, the choking of the men foul their stomachs, the stench of the dead burn their lungs? Were they not at all human anymore? Sometimes, when they weren't watching, he looked at them trying to see the difference between himself and them. They looked so normal, just like men. It made no sense.

Prisoners inside the building had removed their coats or simply not worn them at all. They shoveled fuel into the ovens while the SS and the engineers watched. Novak could hear them talking. There were problems with Crematoria II. Novak would be searching that one after lunchtime. It was supposed to be finished by now and processing transports. Novak couldn't understand when they discussed the actual problems. They were too far away, and the words were too technical, words he had never learned.

The prisoners here didn't even look up when he passed them. He pretended to be checking the ovens as they worked so that he could get a look at their faces. They worked fearfully, and just as somberly as the men outside. They were aware of his presence, but they didn't acknowledge it. They all looked old with their haggard faces, though Novak could tell that some of them were still quite young. For some, the stubbly hair that showed beneath their caps had turned gray. The work had aged them. Mud caked on their wooden clogs showed that they had worked outside. They knew what would burn in the ovens they were testing. These were the poorest of men.

* * *

The ache in Bashir's chest had increased during the morning. All his aches and pains had increased, and he was glad for the chance to sit and drink the murky soup that was his lunch. The work here was harder than what he'd been doing at the crematoria. This kommando was building barracks, and Bashir had to work with lumber. He was constantly lifting and hammering. His whole body had to work, and many parts of his body didn't have the strength.

The _kapo_, too, made the work harder. He was a brutal man, and he would beat his fellow prisoners whether or not the SS were watching. He wore a green triangle on his uniform. Red was for communists, pink for homosexuals. Green, if Bashir understood it properly, was for criminals. Three men were dead before lunch and a fourth was beaten into a coma. Bashir didn't doubt that the man had been a murderer in his previous existence in the world beyond Auschwitz. He was one of the few who hadn't had to change his vocation upon entering the camp.

Heiler kept his distance, letting the _kapo_ keep the prisoners in line. Whenever Bashir caught site of him, he was conferring with the other SS. He wasn't completely preoccupied however. One of the dead belonged to him, and Bashir suspected that he was proving his worth to his new coworkers and reemphasizing a point with Bashir. The man he had killed was the one Bashir had followed to work after roll call. There would be more room in the bunk when he returned tonight, though he was sure he'd be too sore and too exhausted to appreciate it.

When the _kapo_ decided they'd had enough time for eating, he began to yell again, kicking prisoners in the back until they poured the rest of their soup out on the ground. Bashir poured his out voluntarily before the man reached where he was sitting. His life was already forfeit. A few milliliters of lukewarm water wouldn't make a difference. Pain would. He had more than enough already. He wondered why Heiler had chosen this kommando for him. He doubted he would last long here.

Bashir returned to the lumber pile and lifted one of the boards with his right hand. He lifted his leg and let the board rest against his knee while he wrapped the warped and crooked fingers of his left hand around it. He did it quickly, not wanting to give the _kapo_ a reason to watch him. His hand was numb so he didn't feel pain, but he also didn't feel the wood. He couldn't grip the board well, and it often tried to slide from his grasp. He had to hold most of the weight with his right hand which had also lost its feeling. It was only by sheer luck that he made it to the partially-built barracks every time without dropping it into the mud.

But luck hadn't been with him since he was abducted from the ship, and the board began to slip from his fingers. He couldn't catch it with his left hand, the broken fingers wouldn't move the ways he needed them to. He tried to hold it with his right, but it fell, catching him on the shin of his bruised leg. He didn't have time to contemplate that explosion of pain however. Another one had erupted on his back.

The blow came so quickly and so powerfully that it drove him instantly to his knees. The second was just as hard, punctuated by the _kapo_'s crazed screams. "_Ungeschicktes Judenschwein! Heb es auf! Heb es sofort auf!_"

Bashir's left arm wouldn't hold him, and he fell over, rolling on his back. He could see his attacker now, and the two-by-four he was using to beat him. He was also in a position to see the man choke. It was amazing. In the middle of one of his tirades, just as he swung the board around again, a long strand of leather had wrapped itself expertly around his throat. Bashir followed it back to the whip handle in Heiler's grip. The changeling pulled hard, and the board simply fell out of the kapo's hand. "_Das ist mein Jude,_" Heiler said calmly, releasing the whip. "_Wenn irgendjemand ihn verprügelt, dann ich!_"

The _kapo_, still gritting his teeth and rubbing his neck, nodded his assurances and even bowed, cowering before the SS. Heiler must have been satisfied, because he turned his back on the _kapo_ and returned to wherever he had been. "_Steh' auf!_" the _kapo_ growled at Bashir, scowling. "_Zurück zur Arbeit!_" He walked away without so much as a kick, leaving Bashir to pick himself up out of the mud.

He felt dizzy and he couldn't stand up straight, but he could see the glares of the other prisoners. Heiler had showed favor with him, saving him from a beating that might have killed him. But it appeared she had also set him up as a favored prisoner, a traitor of sorts to the others in the kommando. They would hate him. Bashir couldn't really complain. They wouldn't dare touch him. They feared the SS more than anything, and he wouldn't make any friends.

* * *

Novak approached the construction site with a little surprise. Crematoria IV and V had had a rather innocent appearance, looking like brick boxes with chimneys, but the two he approached looked like nice houses or small country mills. They didn't look like killing factories, and yet these two would 'process' even more people than the two near the pyres. The first one he came across was a flurry of activity. They were still laying bricks there and digging into the mud for the underground cellars where the people would die. There was months of work left to do.

There was less going on at the farthest one, Crematoria II. A construction kommando was still working there, but only on the final touches. It was for the most part, finished. But there were problems. The SS had been complaining about it. The ovens weren't right, or the door to the chamber didn't seal. Something was holding it up. Crematoria IV would open first. The _Sonderkommando_ might still be inside though, training themselves or testing the ovens. Novak stayed at the unfinished one for several hours, watching the prisoners, looking for Bashir among them. The ovens there weren't fully installed yet. It didn't have the menacing look that the others did. He wasn't in a hurry to see the ovens of Crematoria II, but he knew that he had to go there. From where he was, he couldn't see any other SS guarding the prisoners, but he knew they had to be around. He could see the _kapo_, and hear him haranguing the prisoners on the construction squad. The _kapo_ had his back to Novak, and didn't see him approaching. Novak watched as he grabbed a passing prisoner and cringed inwardly when he realized the man was about to be beaten.

But the _kapo_ didn't beat him. He even stopped yelling. He was talking to the man. Stevens, on the engineering staff, had been showing his particular brand of genius lately and had designed little gadgets to aid the away team in their search. Novak pulled out such a gadget from his inner breast pocket now. It was very small, slightly larger then a pea. It looked like one of the hearing aids Novak's grandmother had worn after her hearing had started to go. She wouldn't go to the doctor for surgery. She was stubborn that way. He placed the device in his ear now, and the sound of the construction became a roaring din. But equally as loud was the conversation between the _kapo_ and the worker.

"The Englishman isn't here today," the _kapo_ was saying.

"A different kommando," the worker said, and amazingly, his voice didn't sound fearful. He did sound hoarse though. He coughed once and then added, "Heiler went that way, too."

"Good for us," sighed the _kapo_. "You should work before they see you." He tapped the worker on the shoulder and then went back to screaming at the prisoners. Novak didn't bother approaching. The conversation had just saved him another look at the _Sonderkommando_. But more importantly, it let him know that Bashir was alive that morning, provided he was the Englishman they spoke of. __

My God, Novak thought. _He was right here._ He needed to contact the _Defiant_. Novak turned around, removed the device and walked away from the construction site. It was too bad they hadn't said which kommando the Englishman had gone with.

* * *

Sisko was finding it harder to sit still now that they knew where Bashir was. When it was all still up for grabs, he could keep himself calm, focus on other things. But now, with the ship almost as repaired as they could get it, and Bashir somewhere in the camp below them, he was antsy. It was doubly hard sitting still while the away team went down day after day looking for him. He had traded shifts with Worf so that he could see them off in the morning. Then he just waited all day for them to return so he could hear what they had found. He knew they were doing a good job, making a thorough search. But that didn't shake the irrational feeling that he could do it better. He would really just feel more useful if he could be there, searching with his own eyes.

He had told the crew to assume that Bashir was alive until they had proof otherwise. But now he was beginning to doubt his own order. Every day that went by put them farther behind Bashir and put Bashir closer to death--if he had still been alive to start with. He knew that others in the crew felt that way, too, but they wisely kept it to themselves. The away team surprised him though. They were the ones that faced the horror day after day, yet they were the most optimistic. They were very determined that they would keep going back until they'd searched every inch of the camp if that was what it took. He was proud of them. He had already filled out the paper work for commendations. He just had nowhere to file them at the moment.

"Captain," Kira called from the helm. "We're receiving an urgent signal from Lieutenant Novak."

"Beam him aboard," Sisko ordered, coming up behind her.

"He wants to stay, actually," she told him. __

Strange, Sisko thought. The away team usually didn't call unless they needed transport. "Put him through." Kira pressed the control and then nodded that the connection was established. "What is it, Lieutenant?" Sisko asked.

"I heard two people talking, sir. The _kapo_ and a worker from a construction detail. The worker told the _kapo_ that 'the Englishman' had a different kommando today. Just changed. Apparently he was there the day before, sir."

Sisko froze. He didn't mean to. He just stopped moving. He even stopped breathing for a moment.

When there was no reply, Novak spoke again. "I'm going to stay and keep looking, Captain. It's got to be him."

Sisko nodded, though, of course, the Lieutenant couldn't see it. "Yes, do that." And then he regained his composure. He was the captain after all. He couldn't to go into shock at every piece of news. Good news. He smiled. "Good work, Lieutenant. We'll let the others know. _Defiant_ out."

Kira was smiling, too. In fact, the whole bridge crew was on the verge of cheering. All the others had been found. Bashir had been their focus for almost a month. And he was alive.

* * *

Bashir was exhausted by the time evening roll call came. He wanted nothing more than to rest his legs and his back. The _kapo_ must have knocked one or more of his vertebrae out of place. A nerve was pinched, and it sent a spark of pain down his right leg with every step. While he stood, the pain was a constant throbbing down his back and past his thigh to the back of his knee. The changeling had lived up to her promise. She had saved his life, but his days were filled with pain. Everything hurt now, even his right arm ached from simple fatigue. But before he could rest, he had to stand and be counted.

The wind had died down, but it was still cold. Julian, after falling down earlier, had gotten mud all over his coat. It was wet and, of course, had not dried during the day. It had become stiff, and the cold had soaked in through his shirt right to his skin. It actually felt good against his back, but he knew it wouldn't be good for his health. Not that it mattered. The changeling had made her pronouncement. He would never be healthy again.

Two and a half hours later, the roll call broke up and the prisoners were allowed to go back to their barracks. There were few workers from this kommando who shared Bashir's barracks and he was glad. While he wasn't worried about the kommando, he didn't want rumors floating around the barracks. It was the closest thing he had to refuge, and he didn't want everyone there hating him or thinking that he was a spy for the SS.

Without the wind, the smoke hung in place over the camp obscuring all the stars. Bashir watched the sky anyway while he chewed his stale portion of bread. He used to live there. It all seemed so far away to him. He smiled. It was so far away. Light years, centuries. His smile faded. He noticed that all the other prisoners gave him room. None of them came near him and his spot by the wall. Szymon came close. He stood off to the side and watched for a few moments. He looked up to see what Bashir was looking at then shook his head and went inside. __

They think I'm a Muselman, Bashir thought. _Let them. Safer that way. _But the Muselman had an advantage. His worries were over. They no longer mattered to him. His thoughts were gone. He was impervious. Bashir was still very much able to think. He thought too much. Another thing the changeling had kept her word on. His days were filled with pain and the memory of all that had been torn from him.

* * *

The next day, right after the revelation of Bashir's survival, came as a let down. There were no work kommandos that day. With the exception of Jordan, the away team couldn't get close enough to the prisoners. Only the _Sonderkommando_ continued to work as usual. All the other blocks were engaged in rigorous calisthenics and cleaning. The away team kept their distance and watched for about an hour before returning to the ship. Between the dozen or so men on the team, they counted one hundred dead from the exercises. Healthy men would have been hard-pressed to keep up with the pace. But the prisoners were starving, sick, and exhausted.

After returning, they had all changed back into their Starfleet uniforms and offered their services to the continuing repairs. It was the first chance Thomas had. She found Novak in one of the Jefferies tubes. He was working alone. She pulled open the hatch and crawled in.

He was far enough down the tube that she couldn't see him, but his comm signal confirmed that he was there. She kept crawling and eventually saw him. His hands looked to be buried inside the communications panel where he was working. He looked engrossed in his work so she cleared her throat to let him know that she was there.

He looked up quickly and then went right back to work. "Is there something I can help you with, Ensign?" he asked.

Thomas hesitated for a moment. He sounded awful. The things he had seen had had an effect on him, pulling him down. Maybe it was too much of a bother. Still, she was plagued with the dreams. They even occasionally came to her when she was awake. "Yes, sir." Still it was a hard thing to ask about. Something upsetting had happened or she wouldn't be this preoccupied with it. "It's. . . . Before I. . . ." He was watching her now, waiting for a coherent sentence. "I need to know what I've forgotten, sir."

Novak sighed and put down his tools. "We thought you'd remember eventually," he admitted, turning to look at her. "Have a seat." He sighed again. Apparently, this was as hard for him to talk about as it was for her. "We weren't trying to keep it from you, really. You were just so upset before--" He touched his head indicating her attack.

"You were afraid it would interfere with my duties?" Thomas asked. She knew the answer. Novak only confirmed it by nodding. "It's interfering with my duties now. I have dreams about it. I see this man, and it's like I know him. He calls me names and says that I betrayed him."

Novak looked down at the floor. "I suppose you did. We all did. But it was necessary."

"Then he's real?"

Novak was full of sighs, it seemed. "Yes. We needed you, you know. You know more about what's going on than any of us. We needed you and you were so zoned out on guilt. When we found you," he said, meeting her eyes, "we thought you had hanged yourself. It was that bad."

Thomas was still on her hands and knees from crawling, but she sat down now, cross-legged like Novak. She had it easier than him. Her head didn't hit the ceiling. He had to hunch over a bit. "What did I do to feel guilty for? I promise not to let it interfere with my duties. Besides you all know just about as much as me now anyway."

Novak shook his head. "We know like witnesses know. You know like a historian. You know the big picture and little details that we miss. We just know the horror we see. But I'll tell you, because you deserve to know." He looked her directly in the eyes again. "But you have to promise to remember that you couldn't have done any differently, and you probably made little difference in that big picture. Okay?"

Thomas felt her stomach drop. This was it, the source of her dreams, and it was bad. She nodded. "Okay."

"We needed information on the transports from the _Judenrat_. But they were stubborn and stalled us every chance they could get." He smiled a tiny smile when he said that. He was proud of them. "You met a man, someone who worked for the council. He said he would get the information."

"But I had to promise him something," Thomas concluded, looking at the floor. She wasn't seeing the floor though. She was seeing an old pharmacy counter, a door that led into the back.

"You promised to save his family," Novak supplied. He let that hang for a moment and didn't say anything more.

Thomas felt the bottom drop right out from under her, and she was glad she was sitting. She would have fallen otherwise. The air had rushed out of the tube and she felt lightheaded. She shook her head. "I couldn't."

Novak's voice was gentle, as was the hand on her shoulder. "You couldn't. It probably made no difference, you know. He might live, he might die, but no SS woman promised to save his family the first time around. In the end, nothing's changed." __

Except that I gave him hope, Thomas thought even as she nodded, _and then I betrayed him._

* * *

Jordan beamed back down the next morning. The day before had been routine for him, and went off without any mishaps. He still hadn't seen Bashir. But he hadn't been caught either, and he was back on the ship before the calisthenics began. He heard about it when he returned and saw the effects of it back on the planet that night. Everyone was exhausted, and there were empty places in the bunks. Fewer men were sleeping on the floor. There were still plenty down there though, and Jordan hadn't wanted to stick around waiting for the rats. He had made it back out the door before it closed and had beamed away without anyone being the wiser.

Today was different. Today, he couldn't find a solitary place. Everywhere he went there was a prisoner. He tried the room just off the main room in the barracks, but he heard voices in there. He assumed it was the block elder and some of his staff. Who else would have a private room? When the block elder emerged from the room, Jordan knew his time was running out. He hid under one of the bunks and hoped this time that no one else was hiding there as well.

Everyone began to file out of the barracks for roll call, and it seemed like he'd finally have a chance to transport. He waited for the last of them to leave and listened for the sound of the door closing. Finally, they were gone, and he crawled out from underneath the bunk. He was just about to tap his badge when the door to that one little room opened. The block elder smiled an evil grin and rushed out at Jordan. He smacked him hard across the face before he could react. Jordan went sprawling and hit his head on the brick-walled flue in the center of the room. "Get up! If you're late for roll call, I'll kill you myself!" the block elder screamed, kicking Jordan in the ribs.

Jordan had eaten the day before, and all the days before that. He wasn't weak and hungry like the other prisoners, and, though he was dizzy and his head ached, he scrambled quickly to his feet. He was clear-headed enough, as the block elder shoved him out the door, to realize that he'd really screwed up. The counts would be off today and someone would die.

* * *

Szymon was in terrible shape that morning. He could hardly get out of bed. He'd spent the whole night coughing. His neighbors in his bunk had stayed close to him during the night because his fever had kept them warm. Bashir gave up his silence that morning. He felt Szymon's head. It was burning. "Szymon, go to the hospital," he advised. "Just for today. If there's a selection, you can run away."

Szymon shook his head. "They will lock me away. I will be fine. I will go for soup. The _kapo_ will send me for soup."

Bashir nodded. The hospital was dangerous and probably couldn't help anyway. But still, he had wanted to try. He knew Szymon would die, but it was hard watching it. At least Piotr had gone quickly. He probably hadn't even felt the bullet. But Szymon was slowly wasting away, and after all his months of surviving. It wasn't fair.

Szymon had been unable to get breakfast, so Bashir shared his. Max spotted them in the crowd and pushed his way through, dragging someone with him. He was smiling. The guest, though, looked bewildered. About thirty new prisoners, fresh from quarantine had descended on the barracks the night before. Most of them had spent the night on the floor with the rats. Bashir had heard them, too, in the night. This one was very shabbily dressed with thin civilian clothes. A stripe of paint on the back would still identify him as a prisoner.

"_Das ist Leo,_" Max told Szymon, "_Er ist der Schwager._"

Szymon turned back to Bashir, amusement shined in his eyes, but also pity. Still, he made the introduction. "This is Leo," he said. "He is the brother of Max's wife."

Bashir didn't want the introduction. _No more friends_, he thought. It was too dangerous. He didn't smile. He didn't even look up when Max introduced him, telling him that he was an English doctor.

The young man drew in a breath. "_Die anderen sagen, er sei ein Spion,_" he said. "_Einer von der SS beschützt ihn._"

Szymon laughed, which, of course, made him cough. "He thinks," he choked out, "that you are a spy." He switched back to German to argue with the newcomer. Bashir put a hand on his arm, trying to stop him, but it was too late. "_Er ist kein Spion. Wenn er ein Spion ist, er ist ein Spion für die Engländer._" He laughed again, and Bashir wondered just what he was saying that was so amusing. "_Aber er ist ein sehr schlechter--er spricht kein Deutsch_."

Max laughed, too, but only a short, soft chuckle. The _Blockälteste_ began to yell, and they all got up for roll call. Bashir helped Szymon up with his one good arm though it pulled at that nerve in his back. He felt it was his last chance to say good-bye. Roll call proved to be blessedly short that morning, which was actually only a mixed blessing. The work day would begin sooner for it. He was surprised though when Leo followed him to the barrack-building kommando. The count came out even however, and the line moved forward. Bashir hoped Leo wouldn't die his first day on the job.

* * *

Jordan nearly held his breath through the whole roll call. He tried to tell himself it was just like the Academy. Just drilling. Standing at attention. It was no different. But he'd never been made to stand at attention for an hour. He'd seen enough of these roll calls, though, to know that this was short. The numbers came out. He was astonished, but he was glad to be alive, just the same. He had managed to tap his comm badge a few times to let the _Defiant_ know that he was not clear for beam out. At least they would still be able to track him. He wouldn't disappear like Bashir, unless someone killed him. It was a frightening thought.

He tried to sneak away when the ranks broke up, but a _kapo_ spotted him. "One more!" he yelled, grabbing Jordan by the arm. "Are you afraid of work, Jew? Get in line." And Jordan found himself in a kommando marching off at double-time to somewhere.

They left that section of the camp and moved out onto a muddy road. Jordan nearly fell when his feet slipped, but he caught himself and soon managed to find an appropriate way to set his feet. He could keep up. The man beside him was having a worse time. He coughed occasionally without opening his mouth. He fell once, but before the _kapo_ or SS could see, Jordan picked him up off the ground. He held him up as they ran the last of the distance. He could see where they were headed now. The chimneys of Crematoria II were in front of them. That was where Novak had heard of Bashir. Maybe he could ask the _kapo_ where he had gone. Or maybe he could find that one prisoner. But they turned at the intersection of the road and moved over to Crematoria III.

* * *

Sisko slammed his fist down on the table. He had been having some coffee with Dax in the mess hall. She was just getting off duty and would be meeting Worf soon. That was another reason why Sisko had switched shifts. They had really had little time together in the last month and even before that. She had invited him to accompany her to dinner though when her shift ended. They had spent the whole time talking about Julian and sharing their new-found optimism that he'd be found. The message from the bridge had interrupted the cheerful mood. Thomas had come in person to tell him.

Jordan was late. He hadn't called for transport before the _Appell_. "Have we heard from him at all?" Sisko asked her.

Thomas nodded. "Yes, sir. He sent a signal a few minutes ago. He's not clear for transport."

"Damn," Sisko exclaimed. "I knew it was too dangerous to go as a prisoner."

Dax put her hand on his arm. "He's probably fine, Benjamin," she said. "He sent the signal. That means they haven't caught him."

"He probably just couldn't get free and got caught up in the roll call," Thomas added, trying to help.

It didn't help. "Wouldn't that mess up the numbers? There would be an extra number. What would the Nazis do then?"

"Apparently there wasn't," Thomas reported. "The roll call only lasted an hour. That's pretty quick for an _Appell_. Someone else was probably absent. It happened all the time. They'd search for the man, find him hiding or in the latrine or something. But this time the numbers came out, so they didn't bother to find the missing man. Jordan probably just got his place."

Sisko felt a little better. But only a little. One man down there was enough. Now there were two. And it didn't matter that Jordan was healthy. All he had to do was look at an SS the wrong way, and he wouldn't be coming back to the ship at all. "We can track him, right?"

"Yes, sir," Thomas confirmed. "He still has his badge."

"Have one of our people keep an eye on him," he ordered. "I don't want to lose him."

Thomas turned to leave. But Dax met her at the door. "Are you alright, Mylea? Novak told me that you asked." Sisko assumed it was about the ghetto.

Thomas met her eyes and Sisko could see that she was lying when she said that she was fine. "It's just sad," she added.

"I know," Dax said, placing her hand on the other woman's shoulder. "But we wouldn't have gotten this close without it. You did your duty."

Thomas nodded. "Yes, sir. I should be getting to the bridge."

Dax nodded and let the ensign go. She waited until the door closed again before she sat back down at the table. "Do you think she's angry that we didn't tell her?"

"She doesn't look angry, Old Man," Sisko told her. "She looks sad, just like she said. She's got a heavy weight to carry around. I better get back to the bridge myself. I want to keep my eye on Lieutenant Jordan today." He stood up.

Dax smiled and nodded, but didn't look completely convinced. She had a weight to carry, too, Sisko decided. He placed a hand on her shoulder as she had for Thomas. "See you later, Old Man. Get some sleep."

* * *

If Leo still needed convincing, beyond Szymon's word, that Bashir was not a spy for the Nazis, he got it that day at work. Heiler was in one of her moods. She never strayed far from him, taunting him for working too slowly, or beating him for dropping a board or nail. She even tripped him once, so that she could beat him for falling. Unlike the _kapo_, Heiler only used his hand to do this, but what the others couldn't see was that his hand was not always made of flesh. Sometimes it was as hard as wood, others as heavy as iron. It left bruises even through his coat.

She didn't even leave him alone for the midday meal. She tripped him again after he left the line, spilling his soup into the mud. The other SS laughed at Heiler's antics, and the _kapo_ watched with amusement as well. By mid-afternoon, Bashir felt like he could hardly move. The last round of blows had landed on his left arm. The bandaging held, but the shoulder was pulled, and it felt nearly the same as if it had dislocated. Then Heiler put him to roofing and had a hearty laugh watching him try to climb up to the roof with broken bones and mud-caked shoes.

The day was an eternity, and Bashir finally began to feel like a Muselman. All thought was ripped from his head by his demanding body. His arm, his back, his legs, his hand all ached terribly, and beyond all that his stomach felt like a black hole sucking the life out of him for lack of food. He was too preoccupied with trying to work to worry about Leo or the _kapo_ or even Heiler. He just wanted to get through the day. If he could just make it to roll call, he thought, but he couldn't finish the sentence.

* * *

"Now you know how to work, eh, Jew?" the _kapo_ called jokingly to Jordan as he set the wheelbarrow down. He stopped smiling long enough to snarl. "Keep working!" One of the SS kept a close eye and nodded. Jordan recognized him. Salerno. He couldn't interfere at all, Jordan knew, but it was at least a comfort to know that the _Defiant_ knew where he was.

Jordan felt ill and sore all over, but he obeyed. He'd already learned what happened if the _kapo_ thought you didn't know how to work. The kapo carried a short club with him, and he used it with a particular flair. Most often it came down on a prisoner's head. But when he'd decided Jordan didn't use the proper method for laying brick, he had caught Jordan with it right across the arm. Unused to such punishment, Jordan had cried out, grabbing his arm. He had felt it crack under the force of the blow. The _kapo_ though, had not liked the sound of his voice, and hit him at least five more times across the back and the head. Jordan had spent the rest of the day dizzy from the blows. His hand and arm had swollen so much that the sleeve of his coat became tight. And this was how he had to lay brick and push a wheelbarrow.

Jordan used to be in construction before joining Starfleet. He had helped to build houses for new colonies in the Federation interior. But he could bet that in three months he never worked as hard as he had in this one day. He looked in utter amazement at the other veteran prisoners. They were hungry. They were sick. And they did this day after day. Jordan felt sure he would die if he had to continue this tomorrow. He would find the solitude he needed tonight, and he would beam back up to the _Defiant_. He wasn't planning to come back down the next day either, at least not while wearing the stripes.

The call to line up at the end of the day came as such a relief that Jordan found his second wind. He joined the ranks gratefully. As the _kapo_ counted them, he whacked anyone who wasn't properly lined up with that club of his. Jordan had learned to march though, back in the Academy, and so he lined himself up perfectly with the leader of the line. The _kapo_ pulled him out of the line anyway, along with the man beside him.

"Carry that," he ordered, pointing with the club to one of the bodies laying beside the ranks. There were two of them. Jordan recognized one of them as the man who had coughed on the way out there. Perhaps he'd coughed on duty. Blood had spilled out the back of his head onto the snow. Jordan, ignoring his own pain and thinking of his partner, tired and starving, took the man's shoulders, holding on with his elbows more than his hands. The other man got the feet, and they rejoined the group. The _kapo_ conscripted two other men for the other corpse, and the kommando began marching back, again at a double-time.

The roll call turned out to be grueling and lasted for nearly three hours. Jordan had left Salerno at the gate so he tapped his comm badge again, signaling that he still couldn't get away. He had a lot of time to think about it as he stood there shivering and wishing for an amputation. He could call for transport as soon as he got free from roll call, or he could move to the next barracks on his list and look for the doctor. For himself, he wanted to go back to the ship. He wanted to lie down on one of the biobeds and let the nurses in sickbay magically take all his pain away. Then he wanted to sleep until at least noon the next day. But something in the whole day still made him think outside himself. Bashir, wherever he was, had been in this place for weeks, working for weeks, eating that awful, rancid water they dared to call soup. He was probably just as anxious to go home, and he deserved it more. Jordan decided to stay.

* * *

Julian began walking back to the barracks and was surprised when Leo showed up beside him. The young man took his arm, his right arm, and helped him to walk. Max was already there, waiting at the edge of the crowd for them as they returned. He was visibly relieved to see Leo again. Julian asked about Szymon and was certain that Max would tell him that Szymon was dead. "Szymon?"

Max nodded and pointed inside the barracks. "_Ich habe Brot_," he whispered, "_aber Szymon will es einfach nicht essen._" He used his hands to demonstrate what he'd said, shaking his head and pointing to his mouth. Julian knew the word "_Brot_,"and when Max said he had bread, it was usually real bread, not the camp clay that was passed out as rations. Something was very wrong if Szymon wasn't eating that.

Julian nodded and went inside. He ignored the men on the floor and his own aching back. He went right to the foot of Szymon's bunk and began to climb up. It was almost as hard as it had been after the changeling had reached into his chest. He shook that memory away and continued to climb. One of Szymon's fellow bunkmates protested loudly, trying to push Bashir away, but he didn't feel like taking any more abuse tonight. He had to help Szymon. Bashir pushed the man back and pulled himself over the edge. Szymon was laying down. He looked awful and he clutched his coat to him for warmth. Bashir checked him for fever. It had not gone down at all.

"Szymon, you need to eat," he told him. He looked back to the edge. Max was there holding out the bread.

"Go away," Szymon implored, closing his eyes. "You cannot be a doctor here."

"No," Bashir admitted, putting the bread into Szymon's hand, "but I can be a friend. Sit up." Bashir tried to lift him, but of course, it was impossible. "You're only hurting me, Szymon. Please help me."

Szymon opened his eyes. "You eat it, Bashir," he said. "You know it will not help me. You need to eat. Go get food for yourself."

Bashir tried for five more minutes, but he knew he would not get his rations if he waited longer. And Szymon was right, the food wouldn't help him now. He was dying. Max sat with him while Bashir and Leo got their rations. Max gave them each an extra sliver of the good bread he had found, and Bashir went outside, figuring he only had perhaps a quarter of an hour before curfew.

* * *

Jordan hung back as the others went inside. He watched each face as they passed him and then walked around the building. He didn't want the block elder to come out looking for him. He looked back toward the tall chimneys where he had worked today and reached for his pocket. Something made him stop though. A lone figure was still outside at the barracks across the way. Jordan couldn't see it clearly, but he could tell it was definitely a prisoner, the gray stripes stood out slightly against the dark night. He appeared to be looking up at the sky. Jordan looked up, too, but only saw smoke. Still he couldn't beam out with that man there. He might look over. He started to walk away but he stopped again when he heard a voice. It was quiet, coming from near that man over there, and the translator didn't pick it up. Another figure had appeared. Jordan didn't need the translator. He couldn't make out all the words, but he recognized the language. The voice had spoken English.

* * *

The smoke was heavy, and he couldn't see a single star. It was the perfect ending to an awful day. Szymon was dying and the sky was hidden. Not for the first time, Julian thought perhaps he was crazy for coming out in the cold. Not that it was much warmer inside, but at least there was a measure of shelter from the wind. But he couldn't sleep without coming.

All the others had already gone in. Bashir could hear the door shut around the other side of the building. But there was no call for lights out. He still had time. He heard a shoe shuffle on the ground behind him and froze. Slowly he turned, expecting the shapeshifter, in one form or another. Instead he saw Szymon. He had a far-away look in his eyes and it scared Julian. "You should be inside, in bed," he told Szymon.

"There are not beds here," Szymon countered in almost a monotone. He stumbled a few steps further around the corner. "Why do you come here?"

Bashir regarded him carefully, clinically, diagnosing him with his eyes. Szymon was dying. Not in a day or in an hour. He was dying now. "I come," Bashir said, trying to keep his voice even, "to look at the stars."

Szymon took a few steps further and nearly fell. Bashir hurried to catch him, but Szymon brushed his hand away. "You cannot see stars."

Bashir looked back up at the stars. The smoke had not gone away. "But I still know they're there."

Szymon shook his head slowly. "The world is finished," he said before dropping to his knees in the snow. His head dropped to his chest.

It was the first thing Szymon had said with emotion in weeks. That ripped at Bashir's heart. He shook his head and relaxed his legs until he was kneeling, too. He ignored the cold as his pantlegs grew wet from the snow. "No," he said in a low but firm voice. "No, it's just going through a bad spot."

Szymon looked up at him, his eyes filled with pain, but also wonder. "Can _you_ not see it?" he asked.

"I see it, Szymon," Bashir said, "but it won't last."

Szymon looked down again and nodded, slowly rocking himself back and forth. "But we will all be finished."

Bashir moved around until he was kneeling in front of Szymon. He took hold of his shoulder until Szymon looked him in the eye. "No," he said again. "_They_ will be finished."_ You can't tell him that_, Julian's mind warned._ Temporal displacement--_

He's dying, he argued back. _What will it change besides giving him an ounce of peace? _He waited for a counter-argument, but one didn't come._ Good, that's settled then_.

He focused his attention back on Szymon. Szymon was looking at him in confusion, like he'd finally gone insane. "The Nazis will lose the war," Bashir told him straight out, and waited for an objection from his mind.

Szymon's eyes bore through his own, and Bashir watched the emotions played out there. Disbelief, fear, and then understanding. "You don't belong here."

Bashir's eyes wavered for a moment. But then he looked Szymon full in the face again. He'd made up his mind. Szymon wasn't going to die here, in this hell. "No, Szymon," he stated, "I don't belong here."

Szymon had taken on a knowing look, like a wise man a hundred years old. "From the stars."

That surprised Julian. Did people in this time believe in aliens from other worlds? "No," he smiled. "I'm from England." He took a breath, still holding Szymon's gaze with his own. "I'm from another time." He waited to see Szymon's reaction. His eyes didn't change. "A long time from now," he added. "It gets better, Szymon. All this. . . ." He waved his broken hand behind him to the camp and the barbed wire, beyond the distant chimneys where the smoke billowed up. "All this ends."

Szymon didn't say anything, but his eyes hungered for more.

"The Nazis will lose the war," Bashir went on happily. It felt so good to tell one of these people, to show them a light in all their suffering. "In two years, they will liberate this camp, and the Nazis will be punished for what they've done here."

Szymon's eyes held a far-away hope. He grew weaker in Bashir's grip and nearly fell over. Bashir caught him and cradled him with his good arm. "One day, the whole world will be at peace." He could feel Szymon slipping away even as the memories came to him of bright green fields of grass and blooming flowers, sunshine in San Francisco, the clean, beautiful streets of London. "'Paradise,' they'll call it, and there'll be no hungry people, no poor.

"And we'll travel to the stars, Szymon, farther and faster than you can even dream. And we'll meet other people there, from different worlds." He thought of Jadzia, then, and Kira and Odo and even Quark.

"How is it . . .," Szymon breathed weakly as he stared at the smoke-filled sky, ". . . in the stars?" His eyes had ceased to focus. He was no longer seeing this time and place.

"It's beautiful, Szymon," Julian whispered, leaning close so Szymon could hear. "Like traveling among diamonds."

"I can see it," Szymon sighed, full of wonder. And then his whole body relaxed, and his head lolled to one side.

Bashir had been smiling at the things he remembered, but his smile faded as Szymon died. If it had been another time, he could have saved him. He could have saved them all. Henri, Piotr, all the others. Bashir felt his throat constrict in pain and tears welled up in his eyes. He had thought he couldn't cry anymore, but it wasn't true. He held Szymon's body close to him and closed his eyes with his left hand. "I'm sorry, Szymon," he whispered as he placed his forehead to Szymon's, still warm from the fever.

Julian held him that way for a few minutes more and then raised up. He took one deep breath and then laid Szymon's body down in the snow and began to remove his clothes. Szymon wouldn't need them anymore.

* * *

The one man was dead, Jordan could see that where he stood. He had heard the whole thing, thanks to the hearing device Stevens had made. It was him. Bashir was alive and he was sitting not twenty meters away. Jordan started to walk towards him, but Bashir didn't notice. His back was to the lieutenant. Jordan didn't want to call out. Someone else might hear. But Bashir got up and went inside before he could reach him. Numbly, Jordan reached for his comm badge. He checked around him to see that he was obscured from the sight of the watchtowers and called for transport. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Fifteen**

The transporter room was crowded again. Sisko was there. He had been there since Salerno had beamed up just after roll call. Salerno was waiting there as well, though he had taken the time to shower and change back into his Starfleet uniform. Two nurses were there, informed of the injuries inflicted on Jordan by the _kapo_. Kira was there just because she wanted to be. In fact, she was handling the transporter controls. Thomas was there, too, since she was their expert on concentration camps. They all waited for nearly a half an hour before the call came for transport. The rest of the away team had already beamed back up, having had no success in finding the doctor. Novak had reported though that Crematoria IV was completed.

When Jordan materialized on the pad, he had his back to the crowd. Sisko could see a bruise already forming on the back of his shaved head. Jordan turned, a look of shock on his bruised face. He looked as bad as Sisko had feared, though Salerno had tried to prepare them. The nurses moved forward quickly to sit him down. "His arm is broken," one of them reported. "Possible concussion."

Jordan pushed them away and stood up again. "You can't treat it! I've got to go back. Sir, he's there. I saw him."

The nurses froze. Everyone did. Kira and Sisko looked at each other. It was something they had hoped for, but it hadn't seemed real that someone would just beam up and say they'd seen Bashir. "Where?"

"I can show you on the map," Jordan answered. He moved to the transporter console and pulled up an image of Auschwitz on the display. He pressed a few keys, then stopped. He turned his head back to the nurses. "I won't let you treat it, but I could use something for the pain." They obliged with a hypospray, and he continued, zooming in on the section of camp where he had been. He pointed to one of the rectangular bars that marked the barracks there. "He was there, sitting outside until curfew."

Sisko watched the display, memorizing the location. "You're sure it was him?"

Jordan turned back around. "Yes, sir. I didn't get a good look at him, but he was speaking English, and the accent was there. He was talking to another prisoner. I could hear it all. It's definitely him. He was talking about the future, about traveling among the stars."

Kira and Sisko shared a look again. "He was talking about that?" Kira asked. "What about the timeline?"

Jordan shook his head. "He died," he explained. "The other guy. He died. I think that's why he told him all that, because he was dying. I think they were friends. I can go back in the morning, to his barracks."

Sisko thought about that. Bashir could be back on board by morning. But Thomas was shaking her head. "No, you can't."

Everyone turned to where she was standing in the back of the room. "Explain," Sisko ordered.

She had been leaning on the wall, but she straightened up. "It's too dangerous. Lieutenant Jordan is already injured. There could be a selection in the morning. You never know. They'd select you for that arm," she told Jordan, "and you'd be sent to the gas."

"Not if we're out before roll call," Jordan argued.

Thomas still shook her head. "They lock the doors. Block arrest. There is no roll call, and you can't leave the building. You've been lucky so far. But you would have probably passed before. Not now."

"What about Bashir?" Kira asked. "He could be in a selection, too."

Thomas shrugged. "He's been there for six weeks, and he's not in quarantine. He's already been through selections."

Jordan held up his arm. "A _kapo_ could kill him at work."

Thomas nodded. "Could. But no one has yet. Morning just wouldn't be a good time anyway. He's probably never alone then. There's only a short amount of time between reveille and roll call. There are, what, eight hundred men in that barracks? Would you have time to even speak to him?"

Jordan didn't answer. He didn't want to answer because he didn't like the question. Sisko didn't either. He had been listening the whole time, but had not joined in the debate. The away team reports confirmed what Thomas was saying. Morning was a mad rush to take care of physical needs before roll call. And he really didn't want Jordan to go back down there. He'd decided that before he left Dax to return to the bridge. One man held prisoner was enough. They weren't going to risk losing another. But no other away team member could get that close to Bashir. The SS had stayed clear of the barracks most of the time, for fear of lice and typhus.

"You'll be staying, Lieutenant," Sisko stated. "Get that arm taken care of. You said he was sitting outside, alone except for that one man?"

Jordan nodded. "Yes, the others had already gone in. The dying man came back out, but Bashir was there the whole time."

"Did he say anything to make you believe he'd be back there tomorrow night?"

Jordan thought about this for awhile, rubbing his forehead with his good hand. "He said, 'I come to look at the stars.' Not 'I came.' That makes it sounds like he does that often."

"Good," Sisko said. His mind was made up. "It will have to do. I want someone to keep an eye on him at all times. I'll go down to get him tomorrow night."

"Captain," Kira began immediately, "I don't think--"

Sisko held up a hand to stop her. He would accept no arguments on this point. He'd been sitting on this ship for weeks reading reports of the search. He needed to go down himself. Besides, he wasn't going to take any chances. "It will be dark, and I don't plan on being there for long. I'm going, end of debate."

* * *

The next morning, Leo was dressed in stripes. While uglier than the civilian clothes he'd been given, they were warmer. He had thanked Bashir for providing them. Max was thankful too, though he knew where the stripes had come from. He had watched Szymon leave the night before, and he had watched Bashir return. Bashir had even stopped to point one of the men on the floor to Szymon's vacated spot on the bunk. The others there complained, but were too tired to argue. Bashir, as usual, said nothing, but his eyes and the extra uniform had told Max that Szymon had died.

An SS officer was standing in the road watching the barracks when they went out. It made everyone nervous, and they ran to the latrine or to the _Appellplatz_. No one wanted to be seen as slow in front of the SS even though they weren't at work yet. But the SS made no move to punish anyone. He didn't even yell. He just watched. Max found it creepy. He thought that it might be Heiler, the peculiar guard who was obsessed with Bashir. He watched Bashir as they passed him on the way to roll call, but the Englishman showed no signs of even having seen him there.

The SS didn't follow them to roll call though, and Max forgot about him in the agony of the twice daily _Appell_. It was a not a bitterly cold morning, but it was still enough to make him shiver. But the SS didn't like movement of any kind in the ranks. So Max tried to relax all his muscles. It stopped the shaking, but it only lasted a few minutes at a time. The count went slowly. Apparently there was a discrepancy in the numbers. It was not in Max's block though. His _Blockälteste_ didn't run off with the others to find the missing man. A man somewhere behind him was beaten. He could smell the reason for it. The poor man had dysentery. Nearly everyone did, and Max knew that tomorrow it might be himself who was unable to hold it. Life was a very precarious thing.

Max had it easier, physically, than some, like Bashir and Leo. Their _kapo_ was sadistic and the work was hard. For Max, it was still hard work, but he could find things in the baggage he unloaded that made life easier. Heiler would never let Bashir go, Max was convinced, but he had already decided to talk to his own _kapo_ today. Maybe he could get Leo transferred.

* * *

Heiler seemed to have forgotten his tirade of the day before, but he had decided on a new trick. Whenever it seemed that no one was looking, the changeling would trade faces with someone Bashir knew. It would only last a second and only when he was watching. They were faces from the crew. She was insane. He had thought that before, but this was utterly ridiculous. What would she do if the other SS noticed? The prisoners might panic completely. Well, he had to admit, she was probably safe there. Most of the prisoners would never look an SS in the eye. The dog had noticed though, and he danced whenever Heiler came near. He barked and backed up, moved forward and seemed completely confused by the whole thing.

The barracks was nearly done. Half the kommando was already working on the next one just beside it. Others were inside this one, building the lopsided bunks that would house three or four times more men than would actually fit in the barracks. Leo was with them, and Bashir envied him for at least being in a shelter. And on the ground. Bashir was still working on the roof. He fell twice because his shoes or hand had slipped off the ladder. But no one beat him for it this time. The _kapo_ screamed but allowed him to get up on his own, all the while throwing furtive glances back at Heiler.

She came to him during the midday meal. First, Heiler had expelled everyone from the barracks where they had been able to sit on the half-finished bunks. Then she had found Bashir sitting outside. She dumped his soup out onto the ground and then stood directly in front of him. Bashir kept his eyes below the level of the top of Heiler's boots, but he also noticed the stares of the rest of the kommando. Most showed suspicion. The _kapo_'s stare showed hatred. Only Leo looked concerned.

Speaking in English with his practiced German accent, Heiler asked him how he was doing. "Having a good day, I hope." Then he dropped the pleasantries. "Have you noticed there are more SS around here these days? Must be something to do with the gas chambers. Number IV is working now. If I heard correctly, the first to use it will be the Gypsies. But, don't worry," she added, "your turn will come."

Heiler started to walk away but stopped and turned back. "I saw your friend Simon today," he said, pronouncing the name wrong. "And I saw his clothes. Tell me, who is your new friend? Perhaps I should introduce myself."

She would do that if he didn't answer. She probably would do it even if he did answer, but he knew his chances of distracting her were better if he spoke. "I don't have any friends," Bashir told her.

"Yes, you do," Heiler argued. "He's right over there." His hand, with the whip held firmly in its grip, pointed toward Max's brother-in-law. Leo saw it, since he'd been watching the whole time, and cringed, burying his face in his bowl. "He's wearing Simon's clothes," Heiler continued. "You gave them to him."

"He was cold."

"So kind of you. Tell me, was Simon dead before or after you stole his clothes?"

Emotional abuse was a minor thing at present. Bashir felt no guilt over Szymon's death. He didn't answer.

But Heiler wasn't willing to give up the conversation. "Does he know he's wearing a dead man's clothes?"

"We're all wearing dead men's clothes," Bashir argued, keeping his voice calm and even, almost a monotone, "even you."

"_Touché_," Heiler laughed. "Very well then. Enjoy your lunch."

Bashir smirked at her sense of irony, but only after she'd turned. Lunch here was never something to enjoy, even after weeks of hunger. And it wasn't even lunch now, it was part of the mud between his feet.

* * *

The original plan had been that only Novak would be on the ground. Three others were uniformed and ready just in case Bashir got lost in the crowd. Those three hadn't been able to find him during the morning though, and they returned to the ship that afternoon. Novak returned too, but with plans to beam back down in the evening to watch for Bashir returning from roll call.

Sisko spent the day with O'Brien, checking and rechecking the systems. They planned to leave as soon as Bashir was safely on board. The warp drive was ready, though still not up to the specs that O'Brien wanted. The sensors too, had improved, but not by much. Without the forward array there was little more to be done. Dax was already working on the trajectory that would get them home. More worrisome were the impulse engines. They were working, but the jump would damage them if they weren't buffered. Sisko didn't want to have to crawl to Earth on thrusters, especially when members of his crew needed medical care. Nohtsu, he remembered, was still in stasis, and he told O'Brien to make sure that power to the stasis chambers was not interrupted either.

There were still plenty of minor problems to occupy the hours, Sisko found. Replicators were low priority outside the mess hall. Sisko had four of them repaired by dinner time. Power would be cut from them for the jump, but Sisko hadn't fixed them to be used. He had been killing time. Kira caught him at it when she was working on the environmental controls for the same reason. Since they were both there, he invited her to dinner, produced by one of his newly-repaired replicators.

The replicator was in the ready room, an area they hadn't used much because of power rerouting. Considering the length of their stay, the mess hall had taken priority since every member of the crew would need to use it at some point. The ready room was cold, since environmental and life support had been cut intermittently. But there was a table and some chairs, and the replicator managed a passable fettuccini alfredo.

It was quiet, too. In less than a day, the entire ship had taken on a new atmosphere. People smiled in the corridors and told jokes as they worked. They talked about their families and the station and about returning. The tension had eased now that they knew they were going home.

"I'll need to call Odo," Sisko was saying, "as soon as we return."

"He's probably already called," Kira told him. "There will probably be several messages waiting for you when we get there."

"I've been thinking about what to do once we get there, Major." Sisko took a bite of pasta and washed it down with coffee. The replicator had decided that it didn't know any other beverages. "I've told Dax to try and get the ship back as close as possible to the time we left without meeting ourselves coming and going. But still, it took us a nearly a week to get here. And the ship will take time to repair. I don't want to leave Odo out there all alone. We are still at war. I need to get back to the station, and I can't wait the two or three weeks for the _Defiant_ to make it back."

"What do you have in mind?" Kira asked.

"We'll need replacements, too, for the casualties," Sisko continued. "I want you to stay with the ship and whatever crew you need to get her back once she's fixed. I'll take the rest and get passage on a starship back to the station."

Kira put her fork down and looked at the captain. "And what would I do in the meantime?"

Sisko laughed, and it felt really good. Sometimes he thought Kira just didn't know how to take a break. "Take a vacation," he told her. "You haven't really been to Earth before, have you?"

"I've been there," she contended. "We were there for that dinner. The Chief and I had to go decade-hopping to find you and Dax and Julian."

"Our Earth," Sisko specified, still smiling. "Off the ship."

Kira opened her mouth to argue, but closed it again, allowing herself to smile. "Not off the ship."

"Well, then, this will be your chance. It really is a nice place." Sisko buttered another piece of bread. "I'm sure I won't be able to leave right away. We should all go to my father's restaurant for dinner. The whole senior staff, including Julian."

"It sounds wonderful. We haven't had a Sisko dinner in awhile."

Sisko laughed. "I promise, he serves more than coffee there."

* * *

Bashir hadn't noticed any particular increase in SS around the camp, despite the completion of the crematorium. He could see the chimneys though as he and Leo returned with the kommando. It was already spewing out smoke. The top glowed red where fire and smoke emerged. It had started. The pyres still continued to burn as well, and the acrid stench thickly pervaded the _Appellplatz _while ash rained down like snow.

Again, the roll call was long, stretching on into the night and threatening to shorten the time before curfew. Leo had handled his second day at work better. Bashir assumed it was because of clothes. He wasn't so cold, and Szymon's shirt was big enough to hide his hands from the wind and ice. Actually, with the exception of lunch, Leo had performed his part very well. He practically melted into the mass of faceless prisoners. He knew to gravitate toward the center of everything, not to be on an outside edge. He was unnoticeable. Max had probably tutored him. Bashir wondered if Max had told him about Sophia and Hana.

As one more day slowly crawled out of existence, Bashir daydreamed about replicators. They had become magical devices to him even though he understood the basic mechanics of them. But what they appeared to do was produce food from thin air. Any kind of food, so long as it was programmed into memory. Huge amounts of food. Food with flavor. Food with nutritional value. And tea to drink, or coffee, anything warm. Or even cold. A tall glass of orange juice. Bashir was sure his mouth wouldn't remember what to do with such flavor as a glass of orange juice.

Finally, the count was over. Bashir was even hungrier now, and he scolded himself for giving in to his daydreaming._ It can't hurt_, he argued with himself. _I'll never get to eat stuff like that again. I might as well dream it._

But it will only depress you, the sterner side contested. _Stick to reality._

Reality is much more depressing. He found he couldn't argue with that. Now he saw the SS. There was one watching the road that led toward the barracks. But it still didn't seem to be enough to merit the changeling's remark, so he ignored the officer and went quickly to the barracks. Max, as usual, was keeping a look out for them. He already had his ration. He also had cheese from the transport he had unloaded that day. Bashir took his share of stale cheese and gnawed at it hungrily while he waited in line for his rations. Leo was right behind him doing the same.

He got his rations and retreated outside, away from the crowd. A few dozen men still lingered outside, but most had gone in since the snow started falling with the ash. Julian crouched down on his ankles and ate his food. The cheese, not surprisingly, was the best part of the meal. The rest consisted of rancid meat that Bashir couldn't even identify and the awful clay that the camp passed off as bread. He liked his daydreams better. They lasted longer, too. The rations were barely more than a few bites and were quickly gone. Once he was finished, Bashir tucked his hands under his arms. It was a cold night. They all were, but this one seemed especially so. He wondered what month it was. He guessed March, but it might have turned into April already without his knowing it. It should be close to spring, he thought, though it seemed a foreign concept in Auschwitz.

The smoke was heavy, but Bashir could no longer see the sources of the smoke. He could see an orange glare against the horizon though. The chimneys, the ones he had worked on, were also blocked from his vision, but he knew they would soon be fired up as well. _Best not to think about it,_ he told himself.

He couldn't see a single star through the smoke, but he kept watching anyway. He would have to go back inside soon enough, both because of the cold and because of the _Blockälteste_. The others already had. But he liked to stay and look at the sky. In some small measure, it helped to think that the _Defiant_ was still up there somewhere, even though he knew they had probably left. It was like the daydreams, a little less depressing than reality.

"Julian?"

Bashir jerked back, nearly falling over in the snow at sound of his name. Instinctively, he reached out to catch himself and instantly regretted it as pain flared in his hand and shoulder. He turned cautiously toward the direction of the whisper. At first he didn't see anyone, and then a dark figure edged toward him in the shadows. He froze in place and watched suspiciously as the figure crawled over next to him. A small shape caught the light in the vicinity of the figure's chest. A lighter patch covered the figure's shoulders. And then he could see who it was--or who it was supposed to look like. _Sisko_. His eyes looked at Bashir with concern. _Very convincing_.

"Julian," he said carefully, and then he smiled. "I think it's time to go home."

Bashir stared at him blankly. "I won't fall for that." It was not the first time the changeling had ever impersonated one of his friends. She'd been doing it all day. She had never bothered to actually try and convince him she was someone else though. This was new. Still, he would put nothing past her, not after his trip to Auschwitz I and their subsequent meetings. She'd even impersonated a prisoner to get to him.

The changeling-Sisko's smile faded, and his expression turned to confusion. "Julian? It's me, Captain Sisko."

"I know who you are," he replied quickly and tried to back away. "I'm going back inside."

"No! Wait!" Sisko sounded exasperated and half angry. Bashir halted, unsure of whether she would strike out at him or not. She was so unpredictable. It was part of her hold on him, he knew, but he could think of no way to counteract it. "What's wrong?" he asked. Bashir said nothing, and then it seemed as if a light played over Sisko's face. "The changeling?" he whispered. "It's here."

Bashir felt his pulse pick up in his chest, which was still decidedly painful. What if it really was Sisko? _No_, he scolded, _that's just what she wants you to believe_.

Sisko inched forward again. "It's me, Julian. I'm not the changeling, and I'll prove it to you." His hand moved, and Bashir heard a familiar chirp sound even as it was muffled by Sisko's hand. "Sisko to _Defiant_, two to beam up."

All of a sudden, Bashir found he couldn't breathe right. His heart pounded and he dared to hope that this really was his captain. The transporter effect caught him, and his whole body began to tingle. The darkness and the barracks behind him faded from his sight to be replaced by the near-blinding light and cleanliness of the _Defiant_'s transporter room.

This time Bashir did fall over, though Sisko caught him, and he didn't hurt his arm again. He felt dizzy and thought for a moment that he would faint, but Sisko's grip was strong and held him like an anchor to consciousness. He thought he heard him tell someone to bring a blanket and a medkit, but it was muffled, like Sisko was speaking through a wall of gauze.

"My God, it's you," Bashir heard himself whisper before he was even sure he could speak. He tried to stand up, but found that his legs had finally rebelled against him. They felt like rubber and refused to support him. So instead he just pushed himself back until he felt a wall against his right shoulder. The whole room seemed to be spinning, or maybe he was, and he needed the solidity of the wall to stay still. He leaned against the wall, covered his face with his one good hand, and tried to get his breath under control again.

* * *

Sisko felt the transporter take hold and watched Bashir carefully as they rematerialized on the _Defiant_. Bashir fell over once the transporter let him go, and Sisko quickly reached out to catch him, remembering the slight wince of pain when Bashir had nearly fallen before. Bashir's hand clamped on to his own arm as well, and Sisko was surprised to feel how cold it was even through his uniform. Sisko looked down and noticed that Bashir's fingernails were gone.

Bashir looked as if he were about to faint, so Sisko waved the others off and told them to bring a blanket and a medkit. Ensign Thomas quickly ran out of the room to follow his orders, and Sisko turned his attention back to Bashir.

"My God, it's you," Bashir whispered. Utter amazement shone in his eyes where there had been distrust and suspicion just a moment before. He tried to stand, but collapsed again. Sisko tried to help him as he slid over until he could rest his shoulder against the back wall. He thought it strange that he didn't lean back on it.

Sisko was a little afraid of Bashir's reaction. He seemed like a different person. He had never seen Bashir like this, so thin, so fragile. He was afraid to touch him, afraid that maybe he really would break. It was like Bashir was a ghost, and if he spoke too loud or moved too fast, Bashir would vanish away again.

Bashir let go of his arm and placed his hand over his face. "Can we get you something?" Sisko asked quietly, gently laying his hand on the doctor's arm.

Bashir didn't answer right away. But his breathing became more regular, and he seemed to relax somewhat against the wall. He ran his hand through his hair, knocking off the striped cap he was wearing. Finally, when he did look up, he met Sisko's eyes and said, barely above a whisper, "You're still here."

"We wouldn't leave you," Sisko told him. "Not without trying."

"She told me she killed you." __

She, Sisko thought. He had talked with her. "The changeling?" Sisko asked, looking for confirmation.

Bashir nodded. The changeling must have been with him the whole time. Sisko was glad to have found him when they did. He was surprised the changeling had let him live as long as she had, especially in such a place. Sisko took Bashir's hand and held it so that the fingertips were visible. His fingernails weren't really gone, but they were only about a quarter of the way grown in. His voice was more stern than he meant it to be when he spoke. "Did she do this to you?"

Bashir's eyes almost seemed to cloud over. After a long moment he nodded. "She told them I was a spy," he whispered, his eyes looking right through Sisko's.

"They . . . interrogated you?" Sisko asked.

This time his answer was no more than a breath. "They tortured me."

Sisko didn't know what to say. He wanted to ask Bashir what they had done, but knew that wouldn't help. He felt an anger grow inside his chest. He wanted to find that changeling and kill her himself. They couldn't leave anyway. They couldn't leave her there to change the timeline in the Dominion's favor.

Ensign Thomas returned with the blanket and medkit which she handed to Dax. Bashir's eyes immediately went to the blanket. Sisko nodded and Dax walked over, placing the blanket around Bashir's shoulders as best as she could. Bashir reached to touch her hand as she did so, as if to test that she was real as well. She smiled and knelt down beside him, still holding his hand. "We've missed you, Julian."

Bashir smiled, too, a small, tentative smile. He looked around the room then, taking in all the faces: Kira, O'Brien, and Ensign Thomas as well. His smile faded and a look of sadness crossed his face.

Sisko opened the medkit, removed the tricorder there and began to scan Bashir with it. "We should get you to sickbay," Dax told him, but Bashir just shook his head.

"Why not?" Sisko asked, handing the tricorder to Dax. Her face paled a bit when she looked at the readout.

"I can't stay here." It was the first time he had spoken with his voice since beaming up. That voice held conviction, but his eyes spoke something different. Fear. "You have to send me back."

Sisko backed away. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "Absolutely not!"

Dax, still holding Bashir's hand in hers, turned and asked Kira to bring him a sandwich and something to warm to drink. Bashir's head snapped up at the mention of food. He watched Kira carefully, following her with his eyes as she left the room.

"I can't send you back there, Julian," Sisko began again, more calmly this time.

"But I can't stay," he said, still watching the door. "I'll miss _Appell_."

Sisko didn't recognize the word. Maybe Bashir was in shock, delirious. He wouldn't have been surprised after seeing the tricorder readings, and Bashir had already admitted to having been tortured. But arguing wasn't going to help. Bashir was in no condition for it. "Why don't we talk about it in sickbay? You need medical attention."

Bashir shook his head. "I can't. They'd know the difference. I need to get back. It's late and we have to get up very early in the morning. They'll lock the door."

It was impossible. There was no way that he could send Julian back down there. Not after everything Thomas had said and everything he'd read in the reports and everything he could see right on Julian's face and in the way he held his arm. He couldn't even stand. _They had tortured him, for God's sake_, he thought. He couldn't send him back to them.

"Julian," he tried again, moving closer, "you're safe now. Here. After we find the changeling, we can go home. You don't have to go back. It's over."

Now it was Julian who seemed exasperated. He shook his head again. "It's not over."

Sisko was adamant. "It is for you."

"It's not just about me. There are other--"

Sisko didn't bother to let him finish. "We can't do anything about the others. You know that. It might change the timeline."

"It will change the timeline if I stay," Bashir pleaded. "Please, send me back."

Sisko shook his head, too. That was out of the question. He sighed. Before he could say anything else though, Kira returned with the sandwich. Not wanting to crowd the three of them, she held back and handed the plate to Dax who set it on the floor in front of Bashir.

Bashir seemed hesitant at first, but then he let go of Dax's hand. What surprised Sisko was that he reached out with his left hand for the plate. The tricorder had clearly shown that his shoulder had been injured, and his hand was hardly more than a mass of crushed bone. The hand still looked bad, though Sisko wasn't sure how much was dirt and how much was bruising. Bashir set the plate down on his legs and picked up the sandwich with his good hand. Sisko could tell he was trying to eat it slowly, as if he hadn't been starving for the last month.

Dax also held out a cup to him. Steam rose from the top. _Tarkalian tea_, Sisko guessed. They all knew it was Bashir's favorite. Bashir, for his part, finished the sandwich quickly and took the cup. He wrapped his hands around it--even the left--and then closed his eyes, letting the steam rise up to warm his face. He looked like he was on the verge of tears after he took his first sip.

Sisko watched all of this with concern. "Didn't you know we'd come for you?" he asked quietly.

Bashir looked up at him. He took in a deep breath. "I dreamed about it." His face took on a faraway look, and he smiled one of his half-smiles. "I dreamed about washing my hands and sleeping in a soft bed where the pillow fluffs up around my head and there are fifteen blankets to keep me warm."

Sisko laughed in spite of himself. "Fifteen, huh?" Then he became serious again. "You can wash your hands in sickbay. You can take a whole shower in sickbay. And if you want a bed, I'll get you one, with as many blankets as you want. But I can't send you back there."

Bashir sighed and then focused again on the captain's face, meeting his eyes. "I can't stay."

Sisko was losing his patience. "Why would you want to go back there?"

"I don't 'want' to go back," Bashir said, equally impatient. "That place is hell. It's death." He grew quiet again. "If I'm not there to be counted in the morning, they'll think I escaped."

"Let them think it. It's not your problem anymore."

"It is." Bashir sounded more like his old self with those two words. "They'll 'interrogate' people. They'll kill them. Maybe the people they kill would have survived the war. Maybe they survived and had families. Maybe they are someone famous, someone important. And they'll have died because I wasn't there for _Appell_."

That _would_ change the timeline. Sisko knew it. But he still didn't want to accept it.

"Bridge to Captain Sisko," Worf's voice interrupted over the comm line.

"Sisko here," he acknowledged, his eyes still holding the doctor's. "What is it, Commander?"

"We have the proper trajectory, sir. Shall we set course?"

Bashir's eyes widened and filled with urgency. "No! You have to send me back."

Sisko ignored the interruption. "I'll come to the bridge, Mr. Worf. Stand by." He watched Bashir for a moment, but neither of them spoke. "Major, will you please stay with the doctor," he said. "Dax, Chief, please come to the bridge."

He rose and walked to the door. Dax looked back once, as did the Chief, and then followed him out the door. He was glad to see that Thomas had left the transporter room as well. "I want the two of you," he addressed O'Brien and Dax, "to go over the trajectory and set the course. Have Barker and Salerno prepare to go back to the planet. We need to find the changeling before we can leave. Go on ahead." The turbolift came and the two of them stepped inside. Sisko hung back in the corridor and motioned for Thomas to join him. "Is what he said true?" he asked.

* * *

Kira waited for the others to leave and then sat down where Sisko had been. She leaned against the wall and stretched her legs out in front of her. She didn't look at him when she spoke. "The Shakaar cell liberated Gallitep. Did I ever tell you about it?"

Bashir was surprised by the look she gave him then. She didn't look at him as if he were frail and pitiful. The look in her eyes was that of someone who knew, who had seen the horrors he had. He was her equal. "No, but I read about it," he answered, "when Marritza was on the station."

"I could never send anyone to a place like that," she admitted, once again facing the back wall.

Bashir nodded. "I couldn't either," he said truthfully. "Not someone else."

"But you'd send yourself." It wasn't a question. She knew the answer.

He sighed, knowing what she was getting at. He thought of Leo and Max, waiting for him to come in from watching the sky. They would be the first targets for the Nazis if he escaped, the first targets for Heiler. "If staying means that others would die? Yes."

Kira looked away again, but said nothing.

"I know people there, Major," he continued, hoping to convince her. Maybe then she would help him convince Sisko.

"You know people here," she argued calmly. "We don't want to see you hurt, Julian."

"But you won't die if I go," Bashir went on.

"So would you stay the entire war?" She still didn't look at him, and Bashir thought that maybe he was getting through despite her words. "Thomas says it doesn't end for two more years."

Bashir thought about that. "No, not if I had a chance to leave."

"Like now?"

"No, not like now. Not when it would cause others to die. I can't do that. I've seen what they do to people who try to escape . . . and to people who help them. If I leave now, if I stay here and don't go back, they'll torture them and anyone else who they think might know where I've gone. They'll kill people who don't even know me at all. They'll torture them and they'll kill them. Because of me."

Kira took a deep breath and leaned her head back against the wall.

"It's not just them, Kira," he continued. "Hundreds of people could die. Just because I'm not there to be counted in the morning. They could freeze to death."

"What about after they count you?" Kira suggested. "We could beam you back up then?"

Bashir shook his head. "They count again in the evening."

"How then?" She looked at him, waiting for an answer. "We can't leave you there."

He couldn't answer though. He hadn't had a chance to think that far ahead. He really had given up on this day, on ever seeing Kira and the others again. But how could he tell her that? Bashir leaned his head against the wall, too. It was late. He had forgotten how tired he was. But now that Sisko was gone and it was just he and Kira, the fatigue washed over him again.

"How did you survive the selections?"

Her question took him by surprise. How did she know about the selections?

Kira sensed his confusion. "Ensign Thomas briefed us about the camps," she explained, "about the gas, the selections. You're not fit for work. How did you survive the selections?"

"I wasn't in the selections," he confessed. "When there was a selection, she'd send for me."

Kira looked at his hand, the one he held close to his chest. He could see now the hard set to her face. She was angry. "To hurt you."

"Sometimes," he admitted. "Sometimes, she just wants to talk."

"To talk?"

He nodded. "She does all the talking."

"Tell me about her."

"What do you mean?" What was there to tell? She could be anyone or anything. She always seemed to know where he was and what he was doing. It was like she was in his mind somehow, because she seemed to know what he was thinking as well.

"How can I find her?"

"I don't know. She finds me. But she's at the kommando."

Kira shook her head, and Bashir knew what that meant. Too many witnesses. "She sends for you. Where do you go? Who did she replace?" __

Of course. The _Defiant_ couldn't leave if they knew the changeling was still there. "She changes, but mostly she's a man, an SS officer. _Scharführer_ Heiler. He is one of the guards for my kommando. I think she might have killed the real Heiler."

Kira stood up quickly and marched to the other side of the room. She came back with a PADD in her hand. "Can you show me where you work?"

She held the PADD out to him, and he could see a map of the camp on it. It was huge, bigger than he had imagined. He had to study it for a moment so he took the PADD from her and very gently held it in his left hand and using his right to point. He shook his head though, he didn't have a reference point. "I don't know where my barrack--"

Kira stopped him and pointed to one of the long rectangles in the southwestern corner. "Here, it's this one. And you used to work here, at Crematoria II."

Bashir studied it a bit longer. Starting from the barracks he traced, with his finger, the way to the _Appellplatz_ and from there to the area where the new barracks were being built. "Here," he showed her. "We're building barracks. I was working on the roof today." He yawned and then sat up straighter. He was afraid that if he fell asleep, they would sedate him and carry him off to sickbay.

Kira noticed. "Why don't you try to get some sleep."

He shook his head. "It's nearly time. I'm sure of it. They'll lock the doors and then I'll be in trouble." He turned his head to look at her. "You've got to help me, Kira," he pleaded with her. "I can't stay. Talk to the captain. Maybe he'll listen to you."

* * *

The turbolift arrived at the bridge, but Sisko ordered the computer to keep the doors closed.

"The Nazis were very meticulous about this," Ensign Thomas was explaining. "They counted everyone every morning and evening. They even counted the corpses that had died during the night. Anyone who died while working was brought back to be counted in the evening. If the numbers didn't add up, they'd count them again. And if they still didn't add up, they'd count again, and again. Sometimes it took hours. People died standing there being counted. If you fell, they would beat you. Or worse."

Sisko did not like where this was leading. They were so close now. The ship was repaired--repaired enough to get them home anyway--and all the crewmembers had been accounted for, alive or dead. They had only to find Bashir. Now, there he was. Still alive. He was stubbornly sitting down in the transporter room, sick and emaciated. And now Sisko was going to have to send him back.

"Computer, open turbolift."

The bridge was nearly silent when he finally stepped out. No one spoke, but they all looked to him for his decision. Worf stood up to let him take the command chair. "We have triple-checked the trajectory," he said. Apparently Dax and O'Brien hadn't filled him in on Bashir's predicament. "We should arrive within one week of our departure time."

Sisko remained standing. "We won't be leaving just yet."

"Benjamin," Dax began. She still had the tricorder in her hand.

Sisko held up a hand to stop her. "We'd have to find the changeling anyway. We'll just have to find another way." He took a deep breath and sat down. "If Bashir stays on board the _Defiant_, he will miss roll call and be considered an escapee. It is highly likely that innocent people would be punished and the timeline could be changed. What we need right now are some ideas on how to remove him from the camp unnoticed."

"What if he were to be transferred to another camp?" O'Brien suggested. "He just doesn't show up at the next one."

Ensign Thomas stepped forward. "I've heard of a transfer of single prisoners, but they were usually to Auschwitz, rather than from it. Transfers, in general, were more likely to be trainloads of people. We would still have the same problems: witnesses and victims if he should escape. There's really only one way I can think of, but I don't like it and I don't think you will either."

Sisko knew what her solution was, and she was right. He didn't like it. Bashir would have to be dead. He would be counted one last time, and then they could transport him up easily so long as no one saw them do it. "Is there some way we can make him appear dead? A drug we can use? Just long enough for roll call."

"I'd be afraid to try it in his condition, Benjamin," Dax replied. "Could we--I realize how this must sound--but could we use one of the others?"

"The others?" Worf asked. "You mean the dead."

"Yes," Dax answered evenly. "Some of them are frozen. He could be locked out of his barracks. Freeze to death."

"That would not be honorable," Worf said.

"It's not a question of honor, Worf," she argued. "It's a question of saving a life. We can't help the others now, but we can help Julian."

Sisko didn't relish the idea of leaving behind any of his crewmen, dead or alive in this time. He didn't want to have to tell a family that their son's remains were not available for burial. But Dax had a point. The dead were beyond help now.

"I don't think it would work," Thomas said.

Sisko turned his chair to see her better. "Explain."

"He's conspicuous," she stated. "Did you notice he still had his hair? I've never heard of that. Everyone got shaved when they got their tattoo. There are thousands of men down there who all look a lot alike, but he stands out. He'd be recognized even by strangers. There is another way, but I'm not quite sure we could do that either."

"What is it, Ensign?"

Thomas's eyes fell to the floor. She didn't look up when she answered. "The gas, sir. The bodies aren't counted when they come out. There would be witnesses, but. . . ."

"But they'd all die," Sisko finished for her. "We could beam him up from inside."

"Except for one thing." Thomas looked up. "How would we find him? What would we lock on to?"

"We could give him a comm badge," Worf suggested.

Thomas shook her head. "They are stripped of all clothing before they go in."

"What about an implant?" Sisko thought aloud. "A subdermal communicator." He had used one when he'd been taken to the alternate universe to impersonate the other Benjamin Sisko.

It was O'Brien's turn to shake his head. "They don't have the range, not with our sensors in the mess they are. We would have to enter the atmosphere to get a lock, and that might likely tear this ship apart."

They all sat quietly for a few minutes, still trying to think of a way to save Bashir. It was getting late, and Sisko realized he couldn't keep Bashir on the ship much longer. They wouldn't be able to get him safely out of the camp before morning, and Bashir would have to join his work detail just as he had the day before. He needed the rest of the night to rest.

Sisko stifled a yawn, remembering that he'd been awake for nearly twenty hours already. "Mr. Worf, you have the bridge."

Worf straightened up to stand at attention. "Yes, sir."

"Old Man, Chief?" Sisko didn't have to say any more than that. The two stood up to follow him to the turbolift. Sisko paused at the door. "Ensign Thomas."

She stood as well, "Yes, sir?"

"Keep thinking," he said. Then he raised his voice so that everyone on the bridge could hear him. "And that goes for everyone. I want Doctor Bashir back on this ship within twenty-four hours."

Thomas nodded and turned to take the helm vacated by Dax. Sisko turned back to the turbolift where Dax and O'Brien were waiting.

* * *

Kira thought for a long time about what he had asked of her. _Too long_, she thought. _What will they do to him if he's late?_ Maybe they could just return him in the morning as they had Jordan each morning. "I'll do what I can," she told him, though she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he wasn't saying. She got up from the floor.

But before she could even take a step, the door opened. Bashir stood, too, and faster than she would have thought he could. He still looked very tired though. Sisko, Dax, and O'Brien entered, and Kira could tell by the set in Sisko's eyes that he had made his decision. O'Brien kept looking at the floor, and Dax's usually serene countenance was obviously troubled. Kira knew what decision Sisko had made. She wouldn't need to talk to Sisko.

"Doctor," Sisko began.

"You're sending me back," Bashir finished for him.

Kira watched the captain. "I certainly don't want to," he said. "But I don't see any way around it. Yet."

Bashir began to fold the blanket up. Kira thought about suggesting he keep it, but it was a silvery blanket, metallic-looking and probably very out-of-date with what would be available in this time period.

"Would you like anything before you go?" Sisko asked him. "Some warmer clothes or something to eat?"

Bashir looked like he would say yes, but instead he shook his head. "I wouldn't be able to explain it."

Sisko nodded. He didn't take his eyes off Bashir when he spoke. "Chief, please prepare to beam Doctor Bashir to the surface."

"Aye, sir." O'Brien called as he moved to the transporter consoles and Kira stepped down off the platform. "You know, Julian, I've been thinking," O'Brien said. "When you get back, I think we should take up racquetball again."

Bashir smiled, and it was a smile Kira remembered, not one of the sad, pained ones she'd seen so far this evening. "Do you think you might have a chance at beating me now?"

O'Brien just smiled and then he turned away. Dax stepped forward next to take the blanket Bashir held out to her. Then she let it fall onto the ground behind her and slowly put her arms around him, one arm around his neck to avoid touching his left shoulder.

Bashir tried to stop her at first, telling her with a grin that he smelled terrible. "I don't care," she said and drew him to her anyway. His good arm reached around her as well, and his head fell to her shoulder. Kira couldn't see his face anymore, but she thought she saw him crying. The two of them stayed that way, embracing each other, for a minute more and then Bashir pulled back. Dax gave him a kiss on the cheek and then stepped back down from the platform.

"Ready, sir," O'Brien said. "We should be able to put you back right where we got you, Julian. Just outside the barracks."

Bashir nodded.

"Just a moment, Chief," Sisko said. He stepped toward the platform as well. "We're still going to get you out of there, Julian."

Bashir looked down at him, "Promise?" he whispered.

Sisko nodded, his face serious. "Promise. Just don't give up on us yet." Then he reached up to his chest and removed his own comm badge. "Take this," he said, holding it out to Bashir. "You can hide it in your coat."

Bashir hesitated and then reached out to take it. He looked down at it, rubbing his fingers over its shiny surface, and sighed. Sisko stepped back. "Chief."

Bashir suddenly drew in a breath and look of panic crossed his face for just a moment. Then he spun around and knelt to retrieve his cap. "I almost forgot," he remarked sheepishly. Then he stood again and nodded. The transporter took hold of him instantly and he was gone.

"Can you read his signal, Chief?" Sisko asked. "I want to be able to get him back at the first sign of trouble."

O'Brien checked his readings and nodded. "I've got the signal, alright. But it's coming from the platform."

Sisko stepped back up on the pad. His comm badge was sitting against the wall, just where Bashir's cap had been. He'd left it deliberately.


	16. Chapter 16

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Sixteen**

Bashir rematerialized just in time to hear the _Blockälteste_ warn that curfew was only ten minutes away. It was loud enough to hear it through the walls. He sighed. At least he'd made it in time. But he was scared now, in a way he hadn't been the day before. Then he had known his death was sure, if prolonged. Now he had the chance to live, and he didn't want to lose it. And that was why he'd left the comm badge behind. He walked quickly around the corner. He had to get inside. But as he turned the corner he came face to face with Heiler.

The changeling didn't move at first. Heiler's face was as cold and motionless as a statue. But then the fluidity of it returned and he scowled. "Going somewhere?" he asked, forgetting all about his accent. He pulled his hand up like he was going to backhand Bashir, but it changed. Now the hand was like stone, or rather, like steel. It even reflected the little light the night still held, and it struck Bashir across the neck hard enough to knock him back several meters into the snow. This time, the bandages did him no good, and the force of the landing twisted his shoulder behind him. He screamed in pain, but the sound never made it past his wounded throat. He coughed up blood and rolled over onto his stomach. His right hand reached instinctively to his throat. He felt like his trachea had been smashed. He couldn't get air past it.

Heiler didn't give him time to recover. He was sweating, melting, holding the shape too long. He grabbed Bashir by the collar and pulled him to his feet. "Did you think you could get away?" he snarled. "Why did you come back?"

Bashir didn't answer. He couldn't, even if he had wanted to. His lungs were having a hard enough time pushing air through his throat. Speaking was out of the question.

Heiler looked to be in a panic. Bashir could feel the liquid of his hand now as it held his collar and pressed against his neck. He looked to the north toward the source of the smoke and then hissed and tried to resolidify. Bashir thought maybe that was his salvation. She had to return to her liquid state. She couldn't hold the form. If he could just get inside the barracks he could maybe survive the night. Sisko would find the badge and come for him again. And this time, he might not argue.

Bashir kept waiting for her to drop him and form a puddle at his feet, but it didn't happen. She made a decision though. As her decision solidified, so did her hand and the rest of Heiler's body. He began to half-push, half-drag Bashir in the direction of the road that would have taken him to his kommando in morning. Bashir saw the door of his barracks as he passed it. It was opened just a crack. It closed sharply behind him. He heard it lock.

He felt light-headed but heavy, like he weighed a thousand tons. His left arm weighed even more and tried to pull his body down. Only Heiler kept him on his feet. He coughed and a trickle of blood spilled past his lips. He inhaled and felt it gurgle in his throat. He stumbled forward only because she propelled him. They passed other barracks, but they were dark and silent and held no sanctuary, no hope. Up ahead, Bashir could see the watchtower and the gate.

They turned right at the gate and kept moving. They passed more barracks on both sides. Up ahead he could see a building. It was low with one tall tower in the center. Beneath the tower was a gate. The main gate. He had come that way before.

Heiler dropped him in the mud there at the gate and went to talk to the guard. Bashir collapsed forward, coughing and wheezing for breath, feeling the cold of the snow and mud seeping into his clothes and into him. He clutched at his arm, trying to lift it into place, to keep it from falling off his body. Heiler returned and grabbed him again, this time by the hair. She pulled him up to his feet and dragged him forward again, out past the gate and through the icy crust of snow. Bashir knew where they were going, and he would rather she just shot him now.

* * *

Kira had stormed out of the transporter room. That was it. She was starting to realize why he had left the comm badge. She had felt that there was something he was leaving out when she had asked him about the changeling. He had answered all her questions calmly, but his eyes had shown fear, just as they had when he'd nearly forgotten his cap. Fear of punishment. It actually made perfect sense. The changeling had him and wouldn't want him to get away. She would kill him. But what didn't make sense is why she hadn't killed him yet. Why had she saved him from the selections? And why, if he knew that she would kill him, did he insist on returning? Of course, it was to protect the people he knew and other innocent people. Maybe he thought he could return without her ever knowing he'd been gone.

She could still have a tricorder, Kira surmised, some way that she could detect a comm badge. Or at least he had feared that she did. That was why he had left it behind. If she had found it on him, she would know that the _Defiant_ had found him.

"That should do it, Major," Nurse Hausmann said, interrupting her thoughts. "You look as human as I do."

Kira checked her face in the mirror Hausmann offered. Behind her own face she could see the reflection of the bed where Julian's uniform was laid out. She focussed on her nose. Hausmann was right. The latex covered her nose perfectly, hiding all her ridges and blending smoothly with her skin. She already had the uniform on. All she had to do now was get past Sisko.

That shouldn't actually be too hard. He was in the mess hall, conferring with Thomas and the away team on the best strategy for getting Bashir back. They assumed he was already in the barracks now, locked away with eight hundred other men. Kira didn't share that assumption. She assumed something worse. Bashir was too afraid. His fears had to have been based on something real. The others had seen evil but still never assumed the extremes of evil. She had seen more of it to know that evil didn't have boundaries or limits. It went as far as the imagination and even beyond. Auschwitz was evil, just as Gallitep had been. The changeling was evil. The changeling would know, somehow, and she was going to kill him.

Kira checked her phaser and then walked out of sickbay. She felt a twinge of guilt as she passed the mess hall. Sisko wouldn't want her to go. But if she didn't, she was sure Bashir would die before they found him again. And if she was right, she could find him and the changeling together. If he died, they would likely lose the changeling for good.

Kira entered the transporter room and found that she was the beneficiary of a slight oversight. Since O'Brien had been manning the transporter and there were no other away teams on the planet that night, the transporter room had been left unmanned in the confusion. Kira tucked her comm badge--one that would only translate German--and her phaser inside her cape and set the controls. She stepped up on the pad and waited for the transporter to take her. It only took seconds. She reappeared in the empty space between two wooden barrack buildings. The one on her right was Bashir's. She didn't move for awhile though. She wanted her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

She forced herself to stand still and not rush into the barracks. She had to be able to see. She kept her eyes on the ground, on the snow and watched as it turned from black to dark gray. Still it was lighter than the barracks. There was a dark black spot though, just beside her left foot. She knelt down, and using her body and cape to shelter the sight and sound, she withdrew a tricorder. She passed it over the spot and then snapped it shut. Blood. She didn't feel guilty for coming anymore.

* * *

Max closed his eyes. He had heard, as they all had, the commotion just outside their barracks wall. The _Stubenlteste_ had even watched it from the door after Heiler had gone outside. Bashir would not be coming back this time. Heiler had seemed anxious, and Max had been curious as to why he was waiting for Bashir to come in rather than going outside to get him. He was not hard to find. Szymon had told him though, that Heiler was insane. Max believed it now and knew that Bashir was dead once the SS officer stepped outside.

He had expected it to be quick though. Quick would have been merciful. But what Max had heard and what he had seen through a crack between two boards was not merciful. Heiler had him by the collar. He could easily have lied and said that Bashir was trying to escape. He could have shot him right there and ended it. But instead he had dragged him away. Max had listened for a long time for the shot in the distance, but it never came.

He couldn't grieve for Bashir though, no more than he could grieve for Vláďa, Henri, or Szymon. He had known Bashir less than any of them. Just like them, he was gone. Tomorrow would be no different for losing him. Another transport would come and would need unloading. A thousand or more people would die tomorrow, and they would go ungrieved as well. It was a cruel world.

The pounding on the door forced his eyes open again. Everyone woke up, though no one spoke. A few furtive whispers traversed the bunks. The _Blockälteste_ emerged from his room and ran to the door, still pulling on his coat. He looked out as the pounding continued and then shouted, in a voice that held confusion, "_Achtung!_"

Max didn't hear him open the door because of the din of movement as the hundreds of prisoners grabbed their coats and caps and jumped down from the bunks. It could only mean that the SS was at the door. Perhaps Heiler had returned.

A quiet gasp erupted from the front of the room, and Max tilted his head slightly to get a look. It was the SS as he had thought, but it was a woman. She was alone. She held her whip in her hand though and carried the same power as any SS man. She could kill them just them same.

"Hats off!" shouted the _Blockälteste_, and with a snap the prisoners obeyed.

"Where is Bashir?" the SS asked in a loud voice. She didn't yell, but her voice carried the entire length of the room. She began pacing the length of it. "Where is the Englishman?"

No one answered. In the silence of the room, Max could count each step of her boots on the hard floor. She was on the other side of the room, just across from him when she stopped. She turned sharply and looked him right in the eye. He didn't look away as he knew he should. Something about her eyes kept him locked in her stare. It was the same as with the SS woman in Kanada. He wondered, then, if all SS women were like that.

"Where is he?" she asked him. It wasn't directed to everyone, just Max. Strange. How could she know that he knew Bashir?

Still, he wasn't completely lured away by her spell. She was a Nazi, his enemy, one who worked for the extinction of his people. He kept quiet and dropped his eyes back to the floor.

She snapped around, and walked back to the door until she stood right in front of the _Blockälteste_. This time, she did yell, and her voice was menacing. "No one sleeps until I have an answer!"

* * *

Kira was growing frustrated. The blood had been fresh. She was wasting time. She looked at the face of the block elder. It was calm, humble but calm. Humble but not submissive. She really did not want to hurt any of them, but they were used to brutality. They would not be afraid of simple words. They needed a reason to answer, and in this uniform, the only reason she could give was fear.

She looked around the room and then locked her gaze again on the block elder. "You are the leader of this barracks?" she asked softly. The man nodded, and Kira looked at the one beside him. He had an armband on his shoulder. "And you work for him?"

The second man nodded. Kira had an idea. She only hoped it worked before she had to pull the trigger. "Where are the others," she asked the block elder, "the others who work for you? I want them here." She pointed to the floor in a line that ran beside the brick flue. "NOW!"

The block elder called out a few names and other men voluntarily stepped out of the ranks. Each had an armband. These would be the block elder's friends, if she guessed right. He had the privileges to give to his favorites. She waited until they were all lined up. "On your knees," she ordered. They obeyed.

Kira walked to the other side of the flue and paced the length of their short line. She looked at the prisoners still standing behind them. "I'd back away, if I were you," she told them as she withdrew the German Luger from its holster. They wouldn't know that it had no ammunition. The prisoners scrambled away to the far end of the room, and the men on the floor stared at the weapon. Now she had their full attention.

"You are their leaders," she told them as she paced, waving the gun in their direction. "You have privileges and power. You get your own room, more food. I want to know where the Englishman is. Your prisoners won't answer me. You won't answer me. Tell me, do you think they'll answer me if I shoot all of you?"

Some of the men began to shudder. The prisoners probably hated those men. They wouldn't stop their executions. Still, she didn't want this to go too far, or the block elder and his staff would punish the prisoners for their hatred. Besides, the prisoners probably didn't know. They were in their beds, probably ordered so and unable to get up. These men would have the freedom to move about. They were the likeliest to have heard or seen what happened to Bashir. But not all of them. Which one had been nearest to the door?

Kira pointed the weapon directly at the _Blockälteste_'s forehead. "Where is the Englishman?" she asked again. The _Blockälteste_ shook with fear, but she watched the reactions of the others. The one just beside him almost sighed. She moved the gun to him. "Perhaps I'll start here."

He looked up at her, at the gun. His eyes crossed at the barrel. He opened his mouth and then shut it again. Kira tried not to hold her breath. This was the man who had seen, but if he didn't answer soon, her whole guise would be broken. They would have no reason to fear her, and they'd never answer. The man sucked in another breath and then spoke, in a whisper, "_Scharführer_ Heiler took him away."

The changeling. Kira lowered the weapon, putting it back in its holster. "Where?"

Having already opened up, the man apparently saw no reason not to answer now. "I don't know. That way." His arm pointed toward the wall behind him. North.

Kira left them on their knees and walked to the door. She stopped before she went out. "Go back to sleep," she ordered. She stepped out the door and shut it behind her. She waited, listening through the wall. There was a rustling inside, but no more shouts. The door was bolted, and all was quiet again.

North wasn't much to go on. Nearly the whole rest of the camp was to the north. She thought about tracking them, but it was too dark to see footprints. And by the time the sun rose again, everyone would be at roll call. There would thousands of prints and no way to distinguish Bashir's or the changeling's. There was nothing directly north except more barracks and an electrified fence. She went there anyway, just to be sure. But all she saw was fence and more fence beyond it and more barracks beyond that. And beyond the barracks she saw the chimneys.

* * *

The trek through the field seemed endless. His legs had long since lost the sensation of actually touching the ground. Heiler pushed him on. By the time they reached the other gate, he could barely make out the words above it, but he knew what it said. He had seen it before, too. The rest seemed like a dream, a memory of his first trip here. Except this time, he tripped on the rocks in the road, and he was filled with pain even greater than his hunger. The route was exactly the same and she brought him to the gate that led to the yard beside Block 11. _The cell_, he thought, _please let it be the cell_.

The guard on duty there let them pass, and she pushed him forward again. He hoped that they would head to the right, to the Death Block and its cellar where his airless cell waited for him. But instead she took him to the left, to the posts, and he gave up all his hope.

He thought he would simply die from shock when she lifted him into place. His arm would be torn from his body, and he would bleed to death. The pressure in his chest added to his damaged throat would be too much, and he would suffocate and die. But none of that happened. She left him with a promise that she would return for him in the morning. "Your life is at an end."

* * *

Kira stopped at the gate and addressed the guard there. "Have you seen _Scharführer_ Heiler?" she asked. "He came this way with a prisoner."

"Yes, ma'am," the Ukrainian answered. "One prisoner, perhaps an hour ago, maybe longer."

An hour. _Too long_. They were getting too far ahead. "Did he say where he was going?"

"No, ma'am."

"Which way then?"

Like the prisoner in the barracks, the Ukrainian pointed, this time to the east. Kira sighed. At least that wasn't the direction of the chimneys. But still, between north and east, she was still dealing with the whole camp. But at least they had come this way. It was a start. She thanked the guard and passed through the gate.

There was an clearing beyond. Kira expected to see railroad tracks there, as it had shown on the map, but there were none. She didn't have time to consider it too deeply though. She had to find Bashir. There was another gate beyond, and it led to the second section of the camp, BII. Bashir's kommando worked there. But it was late at night and the guard had pointed away from it, to the right. She looked that way and saw the main gate, with its one high tower. If the changeling had taken him past the gate, he could be anywhere.

* * *

Bashir shook violently, from the cold and from the pain, and the shaking only caused more pain. _Six thousand, seven hundred fifty-one_, he thought. He was whispering it, too, but he wasn't aware of that. _Six thousand, seven hundred fifty-two._ He was counting to try to stay conscious. Conscious, he could just reach his toes to the ground and push himself up a little. Unconscious, he slipped lower, ripping his arms up further behind his back. It was difficult counting, especially at such high numbers. _Six thousand, seven hundred fifty-three_. __

Maybe coming back wasn't such a good idea, Doctor, Garak told him. He was sitting on the ground below Bashir, in front of his feet. Bashir could just see his knees.

Bashir had been trying to ignore him. _Six thousand, seven hundred forty-three_. __

Fifty-four, Garak supplied.

Bashir stopped and raised his head to look at the Cardassian. _What?_

Fifty-four, Garak repeated. _Six thousand, seven hundred fifty-four. I'd hate to see you lose count now. _

Bashir dropped his head and went back to ignoring him. _Six thousand, seven hundred fifty-five. _It wasn't that he was trying to be rude. Garak just wasn't helping. What good did it do to tell him that he shouldn't have come back? He did come back and there was no changing it. __

That still doesn't make it the right decision, Garak interrupted. __

I wasn't speaking to you, Bashir told him._ You shouldn't listen in on my thoughts._

Now that really doesn't make sense, does it? Garak stood up and began to pace. Bashir didn't like that. It reminded him too much of the last time Garak had visited, in Block 11. _I mean, really, Doctor, I _am_ your thoughts. It's really quite impossible for me not to hear them._

But those thoughts, Bashir argued, _were directed at me, not at you. Six thousand, seven hundred fifty-two._

Six, Garak corrected. _You really should try and concentrate more, Doctor, or you'll never make it through the night. _

Bashir was surprised to find that he could look up at Garak without physically raising his head. Hallucinations had their advantages. _Why should I make it through the night anyway?_ He asked him. _She'll only kill me in the morning. _

Garak sat back down again, satisfied that he now had Bashir's attention. The numbers were beginning to bore him. _Well, yes, but 'an hour of life is still life.' Didn't you read that somewhere once? Though death will be a mercy for you. It will end the pain. But death here will take a long time._

So now you say I will make it through the night anyway, Julian observed. _You should just let me get back to my counting instead of wallowing in my misfortunes_, Julian said. __

It's not wallowing, Garak contended. _It's thinking, and it's all you have left, so you might as well enjoy it. Certainly you can come up with something more fascinating than an endless string of numbers._

I've come up with you, haven't I? Bashir retorted sarcastically. _And all you do is torment me. _

Garak raised his hand to his chest in mock hurt. _I'm sorry, Doctor, I was unaware of my offense. _He dropped his hand and the pretense. _But it is _you_ who torment yourself, Doctor. It is your own doubt. I am merely voicing it. _

Bashir wouldn't accept it. _I don't doubt coming back._

Yes, yes. Garak waved one of his hands dismissively. _It was the selfless thing to do, wasn't it? Your life for the lives of your friends in the camp. They'll die anyway._

You don't know that, Bashir held. _They might live. There's a chance. They would have died for certain if I had stayed._

So you trade your happiness, your comfort, your life and all you could have done with it for the miniscule chance that they might survive two more years of this place, a death march to some other camp, and months there as well? He noted the confused look on Bashir's face, so he added, for clarification, _You really do have a good memory, Doctor. You thought you'd forgotten about the marches, but it's all in there somewhere. You just have to know where to look. _

Bashir ignored him and answered his point. _I couldn't have had happiness and comfort. I couldn't have done more with my life. She would stay here, maybe go to Berlin. Maybe she would win the war for them. The future would be changed. The Dominion will have won. _

Garak's face took on a sincere expression. _So what good will your dying do? _he asked. _It won't change all that. She can still do all those things. Captain Sisko can't find her. What good does it do? _

Bashir looked him in the eyes. _Death_, he said, paraphrasing Garak's earlier remarks,_ will be a mercy. _

Garak looked sad. _Not really a selfless act, then, is it? _

Julian didn't answer.

Garak stood. He placed a hand on Julian's shoulder. Another advantage: Hallucinations didn't hurt. _Goodnight, Doctor. I shall miss you. Lunch will never be the same._ He backed away until he faded away to darkness. Bashir was once again alone. __

One, he thought. _Two, three, four_. . . .He didn't make it to fifty beforelosing consciousness.

* * *

Sisko didn't need coffee. He was wide awake. Adrenaline, along with anger and not a little bit of concern, kept him up. Kira had called an hour before, from the surface. She had left without his permission and without thinking. A woman SS officer would stand out in the men's camp, even at night. But more than that, it bothered him that she had deliberately planned it, had help from the nursing staff, and had gone behind his back. She knew he would say no, so she didn't tell him. She'd been on the planet for over an hour before she called.

But now that she was down there, he couldn't order her back. She had been right to go, as it turned out. Julian was in trouble. That much had been clear by the comm badge he left behind. Sisko probably wouldn't ever tell her, but he was glad she had gone instead of someone else. He knew her determination and her stubbornness. If anyone could bring him back, it was Kira. However, by the same token, if Kira had shared the information about Heiler, the whole crew might have been able to work as a team on getting Bashir back. But what was done was done. He'd have to deal with that later. Right now, Bashir was the higher priority.

* * *

Ensign Salerno passed the small gas chamber on his right and diverted his eyes. He didn't want to see one of those again. Barker was there anyway. The administration building was up ahead and to his left, the SS hospital to his right. He ignored them as well. Salamon was checking the outer buildings. He went straight to the gate with its marking above. _Work makes you free_, he thought. _Work makes you a slave, and only death makes you free. That's the reality here. _

The guard at the gate stopped him, of course. But the guard was Ukrainian, and Salerno, as far as the guard knew, was German, an SS officer. He was allowed to pass. Four other members of the team were already inside. Still others had remained in Birkenau. Salerno's target was Block 11. Bashir had been tortured before, and Thomas had indicated that Block 11 was the place for that. The changeling might have brought him back there.

It was a long shot though. The changeling would probably not want to prolong the doctor's death any more than it already had. If Salerno were it, he would have gotten rid of the doctor quickly and left, blending in with the local people. The _Defiant_ and her crew would not be able to track the changeling as long as it used no modern technology. Salerno didn't expect then to find the changeling, but he did expect that one of the team members would find the doctor's body.

The camp streets were deserted except for a dark figure here and there walking among the buildings. They were looking for the doctor, too. Salerno reached the last two buildings in the row. A wooden gate covered the distance between them and a guard stood at the gate. "I have orders," Salerno told him, forcefully, "to retrieve a prisoner from Block 11. Let me pass." He held up a piece of paper. But the light was dim, and he didn't hold it up for long. The guard was unable to give it a thorough examination. He opened the door. Salerno entered the courtyard, and the gate closed behind him.

Thomas had told them about the posts in the courtyard. Salerno could see one of them and a man there, hanging by his wrists with his arms hitched up behind his back in an impossible angle. He moved forward to get a look at the man's face. But before he had taken two steps, a hand touched his shoulder.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" a voice asked.

Salerno turned around to see the same guard he had talked to at the gate. He looked back at the door and saw that it was still closed. He was confused, but he couldn't let that show. "I'm retrieving my prisoner as I told you. Return to your post."

The man had not removed his hand from Salerno's shoulder. Salerno was not watching his other hand though. It thrust forward, becoming solid as it did so. Long and sleek like a blade, it sliced into Salerno's stomach. He was too startled to scream. He instinctively grabbed the hand, trying to remove it, but the arm that protruded from his own torso was soft and squishy. There was no way to get a grip.

"You were not meant to survive," the guard said. He lifted his arm quickly, forcing the blade of his hand up through Salerno's sternum and into his heart.

* * *

When he was dead, the changeling melted again, releasing herself to liquid. She moved onto the body, pouring herself into his coat and pockets. She found a phaser there, a tricorder, the ensign's comm badge. She could use it later. If the _Defiant_ was still in this time, trying to rescue Bashir, she could use it to return to the Link. She might be able to salvage her mission after all, and avenge the deaths of her people.

She removed the objects from the carcass and carried them back to where Heiler's uniform lay piled in a corner. She knew she couldn't just leave the body there to be discovered. It would have to go. She thought of using the phaser to destroy it, but changed her mind. If she was going to be Salerno, Salerno could be Heiler once she was finished with him. So now she removed all of Heiler's identification, all the papers from his pockets, the decorations from his uniform that were not on Salerno's.

She moved back to Salerno's body and oozed over him again, letting the decorations move through her to their proper places on his uniform. It took only minimal effort to put the papers in his pockets. But his face would be a problem. He didn't look like Heiler. She couldn't change his appearance, so she decided she would have to obscure it. Lifting herself up, she formed herself into a lion and placed one paw over Salerno's entire face. She raked her claws over him repeatedly, leaving nothing but torn flesh and scarred bone. He was unrecognizable.

She dropped back into a puddle on his chest. There was one more problem. He was only an ensign. Surely, they had sent more than a lowly ensign to find her. There had to be others. She would have to call them and divert them from searching here again. Besides, if she was going to be Salerno, she would have to know his voice. Fortunately, she had not damaged Salerno's throat with the lion's claws. She made another appendage and pushed it through the carcass's gaping jaws. She found his larynx and explored it, feeling the shape, sensing the tension of his vocal chords. She formed them in herself as she did so. "I'm retrieving my prisoner, as I told you," she said, testing the voice she had made. "Return to your post."

It was perfect. Now to get rid of the body. She could not pull it across the courtyard in her present condition. Yet she was loath to make herself solid again. She couldn't hold it for more than a few minutes. She needed to rest. But there was no time for resting. The real guard outside might have heard the noise.

She could become solid, as she had with the lion, but she had to keep changing. She had to remain fluid. She chose the lion again. It was strong and could drag the man's body at least part of the way across the courtyard. Bashir was delirious. He probably wouldn't even notice. She got halfway across down the length of the courtyard, dragging the carcass in her teeth, before she felt she had to change. She was glad the windows on the one building were barred. There were no lights in the other. She became an elephant and lifted the body with her trunk.

She made it to the wooden wall and tossed the body over. As she hoped, it went above the wooden wall, but also above the brick one beyond it. Good enough. The _Defiant_'s crew wouldn't find it there. And, hopefully, neither would the SS until after she was gone.

That done, she poured herself into the form of a rat and scurried back over to her corner where she released the form near Heiler's uniform and her new loot. She only needed a few more hours before she would be rested enough to continue. In an hour, she would call the _Defiant_ and give Salerno's report.

* * *

Bashir opened his eyes when he heard the voices, but he couldn't turn his head to look at them, not even as he had with Garak. That is how he determined that he wasn't hallucinating this time. He couldn't make out the words either. _Must have been German_, he thought. _Maybe it's morning and she's come back to finish it. _But the voices stopped and after a few moments a lion walked in front of him dragging a uniform in its mouth. The lion dropped it, looking tired and changed into an elephant to finish its journey. Neither of the animals had a made a sound. No growling, no trumpeting. And that was how Bashir determined he was hallucinating. He liked it better when he hallucinated a person, someone he could talk to. He wished Garak would come back.

* * *

By 0300, the entire main camp had been searched, assuming of course that Bashir was not in any of the barracks. Kira didn't know where to go now. They were still searching Birkenau, starting with the newly completed Crematoria IV. But the guard at the main gate there had said Heiler had passed him, dragging a prisoner by the hair. They had left Birkenau. Kira was sure of that. But if they weren't in the main camp, she didn't know where they would be. The entire team had reported back. No one had seen either of them. __

Six hours, Kira thought. _He has to be dead._ But she shook that thought away. She wouldn't accept it. She found Novak near the main gate and called him over. "Where is everyone, now?" she asked.

Novak had come with the rest of the away team and was better prepared with more equipment. He took out a PADD and punched in a few commands. A map appeared with blinking dots to show the whereabouts of the away team members. In Birkenau, they were fanning out to either side of Crematoria IV, some reaching into an area barely under development and others retracing his trail back to the barracks. In the main camp, the dots were converging back at the main gate. Barker was coming to them now. Kira hoped the guard at the gate wasn't too curious about the increased SS activity that night. One dot was moving out the other gate by the SS guard house, an area they had neglected to search. Someone had caught the mistake.

Kira left orders with Novak to go with the others into the woods nearby and back into the field between the two camps. Maybe there was something they had missed. She wasn't ready to leave yet, though she wasn't sure why. It was a hunch, for lack of a better term. In the resistance back on Bajor, she had learned to listen to her hunches. She watched Novak and Barker head back out the gate and turned back herself into the heart of the camp.

This one looked so different from Birkenau that one might not have guessed they were so tightly connected. It had brick multi-storied buildings where Birkenau had mostly wooden stables converted into barracks. She had no doubt though, that these were equally as overcrowded. The stench in the air could tell her that. And even this place did not escape the smoke.

Kira didn't have the PADD, but she did have a tricorder and she took it out now, scanning the area around her. She wasn't sure what she was scanning for, but she remembered her reasoning out of Bashir's fear. The changeling would somehow know of the comm badge, so he had left it behind. She had to have something to tell her he had a comm badge. Modern technology gave off EM radiation, so Kira scanned for that. Not surprisingly, she found it encircling the camp in the form of an electrified fence. But there was one point where the fence had a slightly higher rate of radiation. It was behind the last two buildings in the farthest row. Blocks 10 and 11, if she remembered the map.

* * *

Bashir could not keep up in his present condition, and the changeling thought about just killing him there in the field. But that seemed anticlimactic. After all the weeks she'd spent with him, dreaming up his ultimate demise, deciding how he would pay for the crimes of his people, she could not just snap his neck now. He didn't deserve a quick, merciful death. If she could not bring death to all his people, then she would bring death to him a hundred times before he ceased to exist. He was her revenge.

She saw movement ahead in the darkness, silhouetted against the horizon. Someone was searching the fields. She had stayed off the road hoping they would not look for her in the snow. But they were there. Two of them. She shoved Bashir to the ground. He made a small sound, but didn't cry out. She was glad now that she had hit him where she did. It prevented him from telling her why he returned, but it also kept him quiet. She threw herself over him, covering him completely. She turned herself white, like a drift of snow, slightly dirty from the falling ash. She could still perceive the searchers, though they could not see her or the man that lay beneath her.

She had made a pocket above him, so that if he struggled or moved, it would not affect her appearance to the searchers. He didn't move though. He was probably in shock, close to death already. She had to hurry. There was a transport already arriving. She had to get him to Birkenau.

The searchers passed and she picked Bashir up off the ground. She placed him on his feet and pulled him forward again by the collar. If she had to, she would drag him. One way or another, he would keep up.

* * *

Kira had gone behind Block 10 to find the EM spike in the fence. Now that she was back there, the tricorder didn't read the spike. It read a separate source of EM radiation a few yards from the fence. She followed the tricorder forward until she saw a black lump against the ground just past the wall of Block 10. A brick wall linked that building to the next one, and the lump lay just behind it. As she moved forward, she was able to distinguish the shape of an arm. It was a body. She pulled out her phaser and moved cautiously.

It was a body alright, an SS officer. But the face was mutilated, slashed horizontally and diagonally at least twenty times. Kira's stomach turned, but she ignored it. Her hunch had led her here, and she felt this was important. No one could just kill an SS officer in a place like this. This was not a normal occurrence. The tricorder confirmed that this was the source of EM radiation.

Kira wasn't a doctor, but she was sure that dead bodies do not generally emit EM radiation, so it had to be something on the body. Pushing aside her distaste, she began to fumble through the dead man's pockets. Her hands became bloody, but she ignored that too. She found papers, a wallet of some sort, and some loose money. But she didn't find anything electronic. She held one of the papers up to the tricorder, trying to use its light to illuminate the words. They were all in German, of course, which she couldn't read, but she looked for something that might be a name. In Federation Standard, proper nouns began with capital letters, so she looked for capital letters in the document. There were plenty of them. Too many. Kira guessed they weren't all names.

She threw the papers down and took up the wallet in the same manner, hoping to find an identity card. This time she had better luck. There was a card, with a picture attached. The name under the picture was Heiler, Helmut. The word _Scharführer_ was nearby. The changeling. Kira backed away quickly, holding her phaser toward the body.

It didn't make sense. The changeling wasn't human. She couldn't be dead like this. She could fake it, of course, but why? And where was Bashir? There was only this body. Bashir had said that she probably killed the real Heiler. Perhaps this was him. But no, the changeling had been in the camp for awhile. She had saved him from selections. Thomas said those took place randomly, but usually a couple of weeks apart. If this were the real Heiler, he would have decayed by now. The blood Kira had felt was still warm. This was a fresh kill. And frankly, she thought the slashes on his face looked like something an animal had done. The edges were not smooth enough to be cuts from a blade.

This was not Heiler. So who was it? And she still had not solved the mystery of the EM radiation. She took up the tricorder again and ran it slowly over the length of the body starting from the boots. It showed nothing until after she'd reached past his neck. It had to be something in his head. She doubted very seriously that anyone in this time carried around hidden electronic devices in their heads. This had to be someone from her time.

Kira couldn't help it this time. She pulled away from the body and vomited. She tried to wipe her mouth with her hands, but they were covered in blood. It made her sick again. She stuck her hands in the snow and rubbed them together while she gasped for breath. Who was it? Everyone was accounted for. She had counted the dots on the PADD that showed their comm signals.

But she had not found a comm badge on the body. She took a deep breath and moved back toward it. She turned the head and put her finger in the left ear. There was nothing there. She tried the other one and her finger hit something hard and cool. It was not set deep, so she pulled it out. She recognized it. She had been at the briefing when Stevens had shown his gadget to the away team. This amplified sound so that the team could listen in on conversations from a distance. This is how they had first realized Bashir was still alive. This is how Jordan had identified him outside the barracks. But it still didn't answer who it was.

But Kira could deduce that easily now. The body was near Blocks 10 and 11. Salerno was going to search Block 11. Salerno had checked in saying there was nothing there. Kira stood up and pocketed the tricorder and the papers she had found. She ran back toward Block 10 and around the corner. She stopped running when she reached the next corner. There would be a guard at the gate. She stopped, took a deep breath to slow her breathing and then walked up to him.

"Good evening," she said, keeping her face expressionless. "I need inside. I have orders to enter." She held up one of the papers and hoped the man couldn't read it in the dim light.

"There's an awful lot of traffic through here tonight," the guard complained. But he opened the door. _For a prison camp_, Kira thought, _the security isn't very tight_. Anyone with a uniform could come and go. That was a problem, she surmised, when one believed in master races. One doesn't bother questioning one's brethren.

It only took a moment for her to realize the courtyard was empty. She went in anyway. She waited for the door to shut behind her and then took out her tricorder again. There was a lot of blood on the ground in the corner not far from her, near the wall of Block 10. Salerno's, she guessed. It had been covered over with dirt and snow from the courtyard. But the tricorder had seen through the guise. There was also blood near the far wall, though the tricorder had a more difficult time reading it. It was older blood, Kira guessed. They executed people here. She must have brought Bashir here. But there were no bodies. Kira pressed her comm badge five times, opening a signal to the _Defiant_ and letting them know she was free to speak.

"This the _Defiant_," Sisko answered. "Report."

"No sign of Bashir," Kira whispered. "But I found evidence of the changeling. She killed Salerno, sir. His body is just beyond the wall that links Blocks 10 and 11 in the main camp. You should probably have him beamed up. She has his comm badge. Can you trace it?"

There was silence and Kira assumed he was checking for the signal. But he answered, and it was too soon if that had been the case. "Actually, Major, we lost his signal just outside the camp gates near the SS Guardhouse. We sent Barker and Novak over that way, but they didn't find anything."

"She still has him, Captain," Kira told him. "She could have killed him here and dumped the body just like she did with Salerno. He was a prisoner. She could have left him here to be cremated in the morning. But he's not here. She still has him."

"Find him, Major," Sisko growled, "and maybe I won't court martial you this time."

"You can't court martial me anyway, Captain," Kira reminded him. "I'm not in Starfleet. Kira out."

She knocked on the door and the guard opened it. "Silly me," she told him. "Wrong building. I need Block 12, not 11."

He gave her a look that told her she was stupid, but she didn't care. He was dead in her timeline anyway. She left him and walked away. She waited until she was blocked from his site by Block 21 and took off at a run. The gate that led to the SS Guardhouse was on the other side of the camp, not facing the direction of Birkenau. Kira felt another of her hunches and decided to bypass it and head back to the main gate.

* * *

Bashir could see them, figures moving in the night. They weren't prisoners, not even ones in civilian clothes. They wore hats, sharp hats, not the striped caps. They were SS. But he knew the SS wouldn't need to be running around at night. They had Ukrainians to guard the camp. The prisoners were all asleep. And Heiler acted strangely around these SS. She didn't want to get too close. When one of them was in sight, she would jerk him around another building or throw him down in the mud.

He assumed then, that if she didn't like them, that he should. Maybe they were like Sisko, _Defiant_ crew disguised, looking for him at night when it's less likely they would be seen. They had come to save him. He knew he couldn't call out to them. His voice didn't work. It was worse now. His neck was stiff from hanging most of the night. He couldn't even turn his head. And she pulled him so fast that his feet couldn't keep up. He'd already lost his clogs to the mud. He had no shoes now and his toes were numb. He was numb, and all he could do was watch them prowl around the buildings.

They were coming to save him. _It's almost a pity_, he thought, _that I'll be dead soon_.

* * *

Kira reached the main gate at Birkenau out of breath. She hadn't even stopped to take the time to tell the others of her hunch. There were still several of them in Birkenau, and hopefully they would spot him. Kira saw the end of a long line of people going into the gate. They were well dressed against the cold. But they were quiet and scared. They looked around nervously and huddled together in families. SS officers, both men and women, accompanied them as did prisoners in striped uniforms. Kira slipped in with them without incident. No one even questioned her at the gate.

Kira thought about breaking away from them once she was inside, but her hunch told her to stay. Walking was too slow though, and no one here was running. If she sprinted ahead, she would draw attention, maybe even cause panic. Much as she wouldn't mind those people panicking and fighting with their captors, she knew she couldn't disturb the timeline. She knew where they were going. She had seen slaughter at Gallitep. That's what was awaiting these people. Their captors smiled at them and told them not to worry. They would lie to them right up to the door of the gas chamber. They had been using a boarded up farmhouse for the task but now they had an efficient new one with crematorium attached. And Kira knew the way without following the line.

She broke away from them and started up the main road. She figured that one out by now, too. The railroad line hadn't been built yet. It would come in the next year or two to bring people like that closer to the slaughterhouse. They wouldn't have to lie to them so much. The victims would have less time to panic.

Kira remembered the other road that cut to the north, the one she could see from that first gate. She took it and ran again, passing barracks on either side of her. More than ten, more than a dozen. The camp was huge. _How many people?_ she wondered. She emerged out the other side and ran into the line again. There were over a thousand people waiting to enter, and their captors were hurriedly encouraging them along. Kira had to stop running but she walked fast, still passing the line.

She passed four watchtowers and then entered a wooded area. She kept with the line moving forward. As she emerged from the trees, she saw him. An SS officer was holding him by the collar. The SS pushed people aside, putting himself between them and Bashir. Julian looked like little more than a rag doll, too weak to offer resistance. His hands were tied behind his back. Kira guessed that if the officer, probably Heiler, hadn't had a hold of him that Bashir would simply fall over.

The SS up ahead of Kira stopped the line from moving and told the people there to wait. Beyond him and the break in the line he'd just made, the people kept moving. In front of them was the building, with its two tall chimneys glowing orange from the force of the heat. The changeling pushed Bashir on despite the orders of the other SS. Kira wanted to run to catch them, but she couldn't. She was being watched by both SS and condemned alike. She forced herself just to walk.

The well-dressed people had already disappeared inside the building. The changeling kept moving Bashir forward. Kira was not able to gain on them. The changeling was too fast. In a few minutes, they too disappeared into the building.

* * *

The changeling entered just as the last of the pathetic humans left his clothes on the floor and stepped, unsuspecting, into the room. Men in striped uniforms emerged from the room and closed the door. "One more," Heiler called to them. "You can leave. I'll take care of it."

There was an SS officer in the room with them. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Go on!" Heiler shouted to the prisoners, "or I'll put you inside, too. Wait out there for the next batch."

The prisoners seemed confused, but they knew better than to disobey an order. The officer also looked confused. He stomped over to her as the last of the prisoners went outside. "What are you doing?" he demanded. "This is not how we do this."

Heiler let go of Bashir and he fell. He was too weak to get up on his own, at least not with his hands tied behind him. He tried though. Heiler ignored him. He wouldn't get far. She turned back to the SS. "You're right," she told him. "Bring them back."

The officer looked at Heiler as if he were crazy, but shook his head and turned to call them in. As he turned, Heiler pulled Salerno's phaser from her pocket. She fired and the man crumpled to the floor. He didn't disintegrate, though. She checked the setting on the phaser. Lowest setting. She had only stunned him. __

Little matter. She forgot him instantly. He was no longer a threat. Wheezing for breath, Bashir was trying to slither toward the door. _Ironic_, she thought. _He's not even inside yet, and he's having trouble breathing._ She grabbed his collar again and lifted him off the floor. She hadn't had enough rest. She could feel it now. He seemed heavier to her and hard to lift. Or perhaps, he had finally decided to fight for his life. No matter. He would lose. She pulled him to the door, unlatched it and pushed him in.

* * *

They panicked when they saw him. He was bloody and bruised and he smelled bad. He could hardly stand and to their eyes, was barely alive. He was not what the Germans had told them. _Disinfection_, they had been told. _You've been sent here to work_. Bashir was not an example of the safe, if less-than-free, life in Auschwitz. He was an omen of something bad.

The lights went out and they began to scream. Their cries echoed around the concrete walls, deafeningly loud in Bashir's ears. They didn't want to die. And neither did he. Not now. _It's a little late for that now_, he heard Garak's voice say. But the room was dark and he couldn't see Garak. He couldn't see anything, and he couldn't hear the crystals dropping.

* * *

Kira pushed past the bewildered _Sonderkommando_ and went into the building. She closed the door behind her, locking it quietly. She could see an SS officer just coming down from a ladder. Another lay face down on the floor only a few meters from her. The one standing would be the changeling. She drew her phaser and aimed.

The changeling reached the end of the ladder, dropping the can she--he--held. "Let him go!" Kira demanded.

The officer froze for one second and reversed himself. His face came straight through the back of his head, and his whole body switched until he was facing Kira. He opened his mouth to say something. He took a step forward at the same time, and Kira fired. The blast threw the changeling back against the wall and burnt up the uniform it was wearing. And then it exploded, shooting slimy residue all over the room. Some of it dripped down from the ceiling and landed on Kira's arm. Her hand shook. More of it had landed on the SS on the floor and on the piles of clothes all around the room.

She was frozen, waiting to see if it would pull itself together, if the slime would move. It didn't. Instead, it began to dry and turn into a dark gray powder. Kira put her phaser away and slapped her comm badge. She didn't even wait for a response. "He's inside," she cried. "You've got to beam him out. Now!"

* * *

Sisko had gone to the transporter room. He had called O'Brien there as well. They had sent Salamon back into the main camp to locate Salerno's body. O'Brien beamed them up together. Sisko's throat hurt. Salerno had survived. He was one of the three. He had struggled for over a week to stay alive alone on Galapagos, and now he was dead anyway. His face was gone and his stomach was sliced open all the way up to his chest. It wasn't right.

The nurses had carried him away, and Salamon had insisted on returning to the planet. Sisko watched him go. He could have left himself, but he stayed. He had a hunch. And he knew from his years in Starfleet that he should obey his hunches. He told O'Brien to stay by the controls and called Thomas in to wait with them.

They waited. Eventually they had all sat down on the transporter pad. Dax had come in with coffee. Sisko accepted this time. He'd been up for over twenty-four hours, and now the waiting was draining him. He had just finished his second cup when Kira called.

"He's inside," she cried. "You've got to beam him out. Now!"

O'Brien jumped up from the pad spilling his coffee onto the carpet. Sisko and Thomas stood as well, all fatigue rushed out of their bodies. "Chief?" Sisko asked, hopeful.

O'Brien shook his head. "I can get a lock on her, but I'm reading hundreds of life forms in the next room. I can't get a lock on just one. I don't even know which one he is."

Sisko had left the channel open. Kira had heard him. "He's just inside the door. The last one to go in. Probably only a meter directly in front of me. You've got to hurry. I think there's already gas in there."

Sisko could hear the muffled screams behind her voice. "Chief?" he asked again. O'Brien was the one with access to the sensors. This time he nodded. "Hydrogen cyanide."

He looked back at Sisko, his face questioning. What should he do?

Sisko didn't know the answer. In his mind he heard the seconds tick away. How many seconds before Bashir died in there?

* * *

Bashir was counting again. He was at thirty-seven when the others began to rush the door. Of course, he was standing at the door, and so, they rushed at him. He closed his eyes and wished that he could plug his ears. The sound was horrendous, ghostly. People were screaming and choking, trampling others beneath their feet. They pressed so hard against Bashir that they knocked his breath out of his chest. He'd been holding it. But it was no use now. He would pass out anyway, from the pain in his shoulder and hand. Both were pinned beneath him. He would pass out, and his lungs would draw in the poison. There was no stopping it. There was no salvation now. _Death will be a mercy_, he told himself. And he sucked in a deep breath.

* * *

"Major!" Thomas screamed. "He was last?"

There was silence on the other end. The seconds echoed in Sisko's mind.

"Yes," Kira answered. She sounded confused. "He was several minutes behind the others." Sisko didn't blame her for being confused, but he didn't interrupt the ensign.

"What were they wearing?" Thomas asked.

"What?" Kira was incredulous. "Nice clothes, coats, dresses . . . ."

"Look around you, Major." Thomas spoke quickly. She heard the seconds, too. "Do you see his uniform?"

More silence. _Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three_, Sisko counted.

"No," Kira answered.

"Cotton, Chief!" Thomas screamed again. "Scan for cotton fabric."

O'Brien spun back around to the console. "Got it," he said quietly. He was amazed.

"Beam it up," Thomas ordered, "and anything inside it."

* * *

The gas had an almond smell to it. Cyanide, his mind diagnosed. He couldn't feel the pain any longer, nor could he hear the screams of those around him. He forced himself to breath deeply, not to cough. Death was a mercy. It was all over now.

He felt a tingling sensation that started at his toes and the top of his head. He thought for a moment that he remembered it. But then realized it was only another hallucination. His eyes were still closed, he wouldn't open them. He was going to die.

The tingling fell through him, meeting at his stomach, and the ground moved under his feet. The pressure of all those bodies was gone, and the door was not at his back. He defied himself and opened his eyes . . . and promptly fell into the captain's arms.


	17. Chapter 17

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Seventeen**

Sisko watched the pad and saw the two forms appear and coalesce there. Kira stood behind Bashir, ready to catch him if he fell. He opened his eyes, just as the transporter effect left him. He didn't fall backward. His knees simply collapsed, and he fell forward. Sisko caught him and eased him down, at the same time pulling him off the pad.

"Get the rest of them, Chief," he called.

Kira untied Bashir's hands and helped Sisko to roll him over. His face was dark, with a pink tint, and he was bruised nearly everywhere. Blood trickled from his lips, and Sisko could hear it in his throat as he gasped for air. Thomas had already called for a medical team. The door opened and they ran in, tricorders in hand.

Bashir was awake, but just barely, and with his right hand now free, he gripped Sisko's sleeve. "It's alright, Julian," Sisko told him, brushing the hair back from his eyes. "You're going to be fine. It's over."

"No," he croaked, staring up into Sisko's eyes. He drew in another pained breath. "It's not."

* * *

Kira watched them, shaking with bottled up energy. Behind Bashir, Sisko and the nurses, the away team members were beaming up, two at a time. Thomas directed the first two around the group on the floor and out the door.

"Bridge," Worf answered.

"Set course," Kira told him. "Prepare to leave orbit as soon as our people are on board." Two more materialized and were ushered out of the way.

"What about the changeling?" the Klingon growled. Two more.

"She's dead," Kira told him. "Set course."

"Course set," Dax's voice interrupted. "On your mark, Major." Two more. Four left.

Bashir was still conscious, still clutching Sisko's sleeve. He was in pain, it was obvious, but Sisko kept urging him to breathe. And Bashir kept obeying.

The last four materialized together. Kira waited until they were out the door. "Mark!"

The computer whistled signaling a ship-wide message. Dax's voice sounded over the speakers. "All personnel, prepare for take off. We're going home."

* * *

Major Kira forced her eyes open. She promptly shut them again and waited for the wave of nausea to pass. The deck beneath her felt almost fluid to her touch, as if she could reach through it to the next deck below. That, too, would pass, she knew. She just had to wait. She counted to ten and opened her eyes again. This time, the universe behaved. The room began to manifest itself, revealing colors and shapes and blinking lights. She pushed herself up on her arms. The floor was solid and held her.

She saw people, but they weren't moving yet. Like she had been, they were lying flat on the floor away from any obstacles that might have caused injury. They'd all been through this once before. She recognized Thomas by the open door that led to the corridor. She could see legs beyond dressed in high black boots. O'Brien was beside the control panels. One nurse lay near Kira's feet. He was still holding his tricorder. The other had doubled over near the transporter platform. An open medkit lay beside her. A few of its contents were spilled onto the floor. Bashir's feet were near her head. His right hand had finally released the captain's sleeve. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed. All the others began to stir, but Bashir lay still.

Kira crawled past the barely conscious nurse, but the captain was already sitting up. "Bridge," he growled.

Kira tapped her comm badge and tried to call the bridge.

* * *

Sisko shook the nurse at Bashir's feet. She was up in an instant. She touched her hand to her stomach once, but otherwise ignored herself for Bashir's sake. She ran the scanner from her tricorder over him, but Sisko did not need that. He touched two fingers to the side of Bashir's neck. There was no pulse.

He refused to accept that. "Don't do this, Julian," he told the doctor, taking his hand and touching his face. "Breathe."

"Clear," the nurse said, and Sisko backed away. She touched an instrument to Bashir's chest and Bashir convulsed sharply. She checked her tricorder, and Bashir's chest began to move. She nodded, but her eyes didn't lose their concern. "That's not enough."

Sisko turned to Kira. "I can't reach the bridge," she told him.

"Internal comm system's down," O'Brien explained. The captain had not even noticed that he was awake.

"The antidote," the nurse began, speaking quickly. "The antidote is poison, too. If I get it wrong . . . ."

Sisko looked her in the eye. Right now she was the only hope Bashir had. Bashir would die if she gave him the wrong amount. But he would die anyway if she gave him nothing. "Do your best."

"_Defiant_, this is Starfleet Medical. We read your signal. You are nearing transporter range. Prepare to transport the patient."

O'Brien. He had wrung another miracle from the battered ship. "Two minutes," he warned.

The nurse checked her hypospray and held it to Bashir's neck. It hissed, but Sisko could see no reaction. "On the pad," she ordered, "carefully." She took Bashir's legs while Sisko and the other nurse lifted his body, supporting his bruised neck and injured arms. They lifted him straight up and slid him onto the transporter platform. But as they set him down again, his breathing stopped.

"Clear for transport," said the calm voice at Starfleet Medical. O'Brien pressed the controls, initiating the transport. Sisko waited for the tingling to start. Instead the console sparked and snapped, pushing O'Brien away. "No!" he yelled, kicking the wall. "Not now!"

"We've lost your signal _Defiant_, and are assuming technical malfunction." Starfleet Medical again. "We have your coordinates and will transport the patient from here. Transport in 15 seconds."

While the nurse worked on Bashir, Sisko wondered just how much O'Brien had been able to convey to the dispatcher on the planet without even an audio transmission. "Major," Sisko called, "get to the bridge." The transporter caught him before she could reply.

Despite the urgency in the transporter room, there had been an odd tranquility there, a deceptive peace, a silence overhanging the noise. Starfleet Medical was a bustle, fast and noisy even before Sisko had fully materialized. Reluctantly, Sisko backed away and let the medical personnel surround Bashir's thin, perhaps lifeless form. The doctors shouted orders. The nurse recited Bashir's vitals and most obvious injuries. Other nurses raced about him to obey the doctors.

And in the middle of it all was Bashir, conspicuous in that sea of movement by his immobility. Sisko felt the silence return to him as he stood there watching, and he realized now it had not been on the _Defiant_. It was in himself, or in Bashir, or maybe passing between the two of them. But was it trust? Or was it surrender?

"Trust," he whispered to Bashir as they lifted him onto an anti-gravity stretcher. "That's an order."

* * *

Kira made it to the bridge in time to completely shock the ensign on the viewscreen. He had been negotiating docking procedures with Dax but he stopped mid-sentence when he saw her. "Are you aware," he asked, "that there is a Nazi on your bridge?"

Dax remained calm. "You know your history."

Dax had taken his statement lightly. But Kira was not as easily given to humor. "I'm not a Nazi," she told him, stripping the latex from her nose. "I'm a Bajoran. Now please finish what you were saying."

The ensign regarded her for a moment longer and then shrugged. "You have the coordinates. Our Chief Engineer has been apprised of your condition. If you'd like, we could tractor you in."

"That will not be necessary." Worf Worf's voice, though quiet, still held force. "The _Defiant_ can make it under her own power."

"Fine." Something drew the ensign's attention away from the viewscreen. When he turned back his eyes conveyed bad news. Kira thought about Bashir and stepped one step closer to the viewscreen. "Starfleet Medical," the ensign said, "has sent us word that your entire crew is under quarantine until everyone can be tested for typhus. Is your medical bay equipped to handle the test?"

"It was," Dax answered. "I'm not sure about now."

"Well, if not, they'll send someone over."

"Did they say anything else?" Kira asked, even though she knew it was likely too soon for any word.

"No, sir," the ensign responded. He still looked at her slightly askance. __

Don't worry, she thought to him. _This uniform is going to burn soon. _

"Ensign," Dax spoke up just before he cut the transmission, "how long have we been gone."

The ensign checked his readouts. "Our records indicate you passed this way four days ago, sir."

Kira and Dax were among the first to be tested since they'd both been to the planet and were among the senior staff. Sisko was waiting in a small, comfortably furnished room just outside the emergency trauma area. He'd been waiting for nearly an hour already. He was glad for the company when the two women arrived. "I told them about Nohtsu," he told them. "They're ready for her as soon as the tests are done. I trust that nothing went wrong with the stasis chamber?"

Dax shook her head. "It was fine when we were there. I checked it myself."

"Did you call Odo?" He asked. He really had meant to call him himself, to see about the station and to ask about Jake. But he had a feeling that the constable had everything under control. Right now, Bashir needed him more.

"First thing," Dax answered, summarizing her conversation with him. The station was fine. The _Rotarron_ had found and destroyed several ships that were blocking their transmissions. "They found something. Something like a changeling. Odo wasn't quite sure. It died. He thought it was just a diversion. He figured out we had one with us. Jake's fine, too. He said to call when you get a chance."

Kira had taken the time to change back into her regular uniform. Her nose had returned to its normally ridged shape. "Anything?" she asked.

Sisko shook his head. "Not yet. But that could mean good news. If he was dead, they'd have told us already."

"He's not dead." Sisko spun around to see who had spoken. A tall woman with dark green eyes and a slightly angular face stood in the doorway. She was wearing red surgical scrubs. The head-covering was in her hands, leaving her brown hair to fall on her shoulders. "But he's not in good shape. Hana Oreenová," she said, by way of introduction. "I'm your doctor's doctor. May I sit down?"

"Of course," Dax answered, moving over to give her room. Doctor Oreenová sat down on the edge of the couch just opposite Sisko. "Captain," she began. Then she stopped and took a breath. She was obviously looking for a good way to give bad news. Sisko knew the bad news already. He wished she'd just tell him. "Captain, the worst of his problems--and there are many--is poisoning by hydrogen cyanide gas. Cyanide is an old poison. It's been around for centuries, and unfortunately it's one we haven't been able to counteract any more efficiently than they could four hundred years ago. The antidote is dicobalt edetate. Dicobalt edetate is also poisonous. All cyanide antidotes are. While they are not as toxic when they're counteracting cyanide, they must be used very carefully. Your nurse is to be commended. Even with a healthy adult, it's difficult to determine the proper amount. She did quite well, and her promptness is an important factor in his continued survival."

Sisko nodded. He was grateful for the doctor's frankness. She continued. "On a positive note, we have an advantage over our less technically-advanced ancestors. Cyanide works by internal asphyxiation. It prevents red blood cells from absorbing oxygen. With modern medical technology, we can filter oxygen directly to his body at the cellular level. This won't save him, but it will certainly give him a helping hand. Normally, if a victim lives for four hours, he'll recover. We're helping him to do that. He's got three more to go."

Her hands had been crossed in her lap, but she moved them now, lifting her red surgical cap and revealing a PADD which she handed to Sisko. "He's also got a lot of other problems," she stated, "a few of which are also potentially life-threatening. The bruise on his neck, for instance. It's caused a hematoma. As yet, it's not terminal, but it does warrant constant observation. It could lead to stroke. There is a thankfully very slight perforation of the larynx, and he shows signs of a previous cardiac arrest. Our scans show bruising on the heart. He needs surgery, but his condition is just too delicate at the moment to risk that."

Sisko looked at the PADD. It was a long list of medical terms, followed by a layman's translation. Internal asphyxiation and cyanide poisoning were at the top. Sisko had to page down a few time to get to the bottom. Bruising on the left shin. "And to be frank with you," she continued, looking directly into Sisko's eyes, "as his doctor, I'd like to know how in the hell one thirty-three-year-old man gets a list like that. I know you've been contacted by Starfleet Command and told to keep it quiet. But I do have some idea. I saw the tattoo on his arm. I had an ancestor who had a tattoo very much like that, on the human side, of course. He was a survivor of the Shoah, the Holocaust."

Sisko didn't say anything. He couldn't, not until after he was debriefed. And he refused to be debriefed until after he had concrete word on Bashir's condition. But he met her gaze and did not waver or blink.

"I don't understand how. But I promise you, I will do my best to see that he survives the next three hours." She stood. "The rest is largely up to him."

Sisko and the others stood as well. "Can we see him?" Sisko asked. "Sit with him?"

"The air's a little strange in there, pure oxygen, and it will feel like it's soaking into your skin," she warned. "We're still doing some work with him. But if you're still interested, I'll come get you when he's ready."

* * *

Thomas was tired but she just couldn't see going to her temporary quarters to sleep. She stepped outside the airlock and looked down the wide corridor. There was a lot to do at a starbase. She could go to a restaurant or take in one of the cultural entertainments going on. She just didn't feel like any of those. She had thought, perhaps naively, that saving the doctor would ease her guilt. But the memories and thoughts refused to go away just because they had left that century behind.

"Something wrong, Ensign?" a familiar voice asked.

Thomas turned and saw Novak standing in the airlock doorway. "How are you?" He had tested positive for typhus, but luckily, it was an easily treatable disease.

He shrugged. "Never even felt bad to start with. Actually," he admitted, "I did, but I thought it was just the smoke and the place making me sick. How about you?"

"Oh," Thomas said, standing up straighter, "I'm fine. I tested negative."

"I wasn't talking about typhus," he told her. "You know, we may be restricted from talking about our 'trip' with others, but we can talk about it among ourselves. I'll bet we can find his name in the archives."

Thomas met his eyes. She had to look up at him because he was so tall. "Which archives?"

"Not sure," he confessed, with a graceful smile, "but I'll help you find out." He bowed slightly and held out his elbow to her.

Thomas smiled, too, and took his arm. "I'd like that." They started down the long corridor. "I hope I told you his name."

* * *

At first there was only the sound of air rushing in and rushing out . . . and darkness. And then sensation, pressure on his hand. There was pain. Not in the hand, but elsewhere. Too much pain. The air grew quieter as other sounds came muffled to his consciousness.

"Julian," he thought he heard. "Julian, open your eyes." It was a woman's voice, slightly accented and quiet. It was far away.

Nearer to him, other voices became audible. Voices that were not pleasant. Words he couldn't understand. Fear.

The soft voice spoke again, "Julian, open your eyes."

He didn't want to open his eyes. He wanted to go back. Back to where there were no voices, where there was no pain. Back to only the rushing of air in and out. To blackness.

"Julian, please." That voice was closer now. It sounded familiar. Did he know the voice? "Wake up and open your eyes."

* * *

Amsha Bashir looked up at the doctor, looking for help in her face.

"Keep trying, Mrs. Bashir," the doctor whispered. "He hears you."

"How can you tell?" Richard Bashir whispered back, touching his wife's shoulder as she held their son's hand.

"His breathing is becoming more erratic, his pulse rate is increasing," she answered, indicating the machines around the biobed. "He's in pain. He's conscious. Semi-conscious, anyway."

Amsha looked again at her son on the bed. His gaunt features had been peaceful before. _Too peaceful_, she had thought. He had looked like . . . like he was dead and set out for visitation. It had frightened her so much to see him like that. But now Julian's face was lined with pain and--was it memory? As family, Captain Sisko had been allowed to tell them what had happened. Julian's brows were furrowed. The hand she held began to clench hers lightly and then release, almost spasmodically. The doctor nodded again, more forcefully.

"Julian?" Amsha began again. "Julian, can you hear me?"

* * *

He knew the voice, but it was growing fainter again, lost in the screams he heard around him. Hundreds of voices, screaming, choking, begging for something. He knew what they wanted. They wanted air. He wanted it, too.

"Julian, please!"

There was something in his hand. Something strong and soft. Something comforting, but it couldn't stop the screams. The thing belonged to the voice. It was the pressure he had felt before.

"Julian, open your eyes."

Maybe if he did as he was told the other voices would stop. Maybe he could see the hand that held his. Maybe that one would save him.

* * *

All at once, Julian's eyes opened, and his face took on an expression of sheer terror. The hand she held grasped her own with strength that surprised her. Julian should have been weak. Knowing that his neck was probably still sore, Amsha leaned closer so that she'd be in Julian's line of sight. She touched his face. "Julian, can you hear me?"

Julian continued to stare in horror at the ceiling. He lay strangely still as if frozen to the bed. His face had become ghostly white. But his mouth moved. Amsha didn't hear anything at first, but then she knew he probably couldn't talk. She leaned closer, and Julian's whispers became clear. "Make it stop," he pleaded.

* * *

He had wanted to see the voice that spoke to him. The one that was familiar, but when he opened his eyes he saw only the screamers. They clung to him and scratched at the walls, climbing on each other and on him, wailing and gasping for breath.

He wanted it to stop. The blackness was better than this. The blackness was peaceful and quiet. No pain there. But he couldn't close his eyes.

From somewhere far away, drowned by the voices, he could almost hear a name. His own name. He clung to the hand he felt, the one that belonged to the voice. It had to help him. "Make it stop!" he pleaded. He could feel and hear the breath leaving him, but he couldn't hear a voice. The voice that belonged to the hand wouldn't hear him. "Please!" he cried to it, "make them stop!" Still the people shrieked and howled around him, writhing in agony, contorting and convulsing.

Something touched his forehead, something cold and hard, but not heavy. It did not belong to the voice he tried to hear. His eyelids began to close, blocking out the vision of death before him. Their wailing grew fainter, muffled by the sound of air, rushing in and rushing out. Blackness was coming again. He let it come.

* * *

Julian's hand slackened in her own as his eyes fluttered closed again, and his breathing became more regular. Very gently, she bent over him, touching her forehead to his fingers. Richard held her shoulders. She was glad they let him come, but even his leave from prison couldn't keep her tears from coming. Julian was her son. He looked so small and thin to her. His hand was so light.

She was thankful when the doctor had put Julian back to sleep. What had he seen there on the ceiling? She tried to think of the hell he'd been through, but she couldn't even imagine it. She had a few ideas, but she couldn't know for sure, not really.

* * *

Sisko had given up his place beside Bashir's bed reluctantly, though he would not admit that to Julian's parents. They deserved to be there with him. He was their son. To Sisko he was just an officer. No, he was more than that. He was a friend, and he wanted to be with his friend when he woke up. Instead he had been waiting in the little lounge for eleven hours, barely moving between reports from his doctors and watching Bashir's face on the monitor.

There was a hand on his shoulder. Sisko turned his head to see Dax there. She looked up at the monitor with sad eyes. Julian was sleeping peacefully again. The lines were gone from his face. He looked so young then. And yet so much older. "I shouldn't have let him go back, Old Man," Sisko whispered, still watching the screen.

She sat down beside him, but her hand was still there on his shoulder. "You had to, Benjamin," Dax said quietly, squeezing his shoulder just a bit. "He was right. It would have been worse for him if you hadn't. He couldn't have lived that way."

Sisko knew she was right. Bashir had been adamant. He didn't want to cause others to suffer. But it was hard watching Julian suffer instead.

"You should try and get some sleep yourself, Benjamin," Dax suggested. "It's been a very long time since you've slept. Centuries, in fact."

Sisko sighed and shook his head. He couldn't just walk away.

"You're exhausted." Dax took his arm and pulled him up from the chair. "They'll stay with him." She meant his parents. "He's going to be fine, Benjamin."

He couldn't argue anymore. He was too tired. He let her lead him out of the room.

* * *

He felt again the blackness slipping away, but this time there was no voice and no screaming. It was still quiet. He could hear the air rushing in and rushing out, and he knew it was his own breath. He could feel the pain again and remember why it was there. He heard familiar sounds, clicks and beeps. One, he knew, was his pulse.

He opened his eyes, expecting to see light that would hurt them. But the light was dim and his vision blurred. He turned his head, or at least he tried. The muscles on the right side of his neck protested painfully. But now he could see there was a form beside him, sleeping in a chair. He looked uncomfortable.

Sisko. That was not the voice he had heard. But it was right that he was there. He heard his words again in his head. _Don't give up on us yet_. He closed his eyes again in shame. He had done just that.

He tried to move his arm, to touch him and see if he was real, but his left arm wouldn't move past the elbow. Sharp pain emanated from his shoulder. He remembered his shoulders hurting, that one being dislocated. He reached then with his right arm, across his chest. That hurt, too, but he had to try. "Captain," he attempted to say, but his voice wouldn't work. His throat hurt when he tried.

* * *

"Captain?"

Sisko jerked awake and saw, first, Amsha Bashir's form lying on the next bed over. She had asked him to come while she slept. He was grateful to her for that. He looked up at the doctor who stood just behind him. She was smiling. She tilted her head toward the biobed. Sisko followed her gaze to find Julian Bashir looking back at him, reaching out his hand to him.

"Captain," Bashir said softly, but gravelly. His eyes looked hopeful. "Are you real?"

Sisko forgot his weariness and pulled his chair closer to the biobed. He took Bashir's hand and listened for his whisper. "Yes," he replied happily, "I'm real."

"Good." Bashir's mouth turned up ever so slightly in a smile. "I was . . . ," he took a breath, ". . . worried about you."

Now that didn't make any sense. "Me?" he asked. But when Bashir didn't offer an explanation he didn't push the issue. "Do you know where you are?"

The smile disappeared as Bashir looked around the room as best he could. His mother, now awake, was at his other side, smiling down at him. He smiled back, for just a moment. "A hospital," he answered. "Modern."

Sisko nodded. "Starfleet Medical."

"Why does it still hurt?" Bashir asked, still in a whisper.

Sisko didn't know how to respond. He didn't want to provoke any bad memories. "It was cyanide," he finally said. He was about to explain that the doctors couldn't give him anything for the pain because it might interfere, but Bashir nodded that he understood already. _Of course, he does_, Sisko admonished himself.

"How long?"

Sisko wasn't quite sure what he was asking but assumed he meant how much time since he'd been gassed. "Twenty-three hours."

Bashir smiled again. "That's more than four."

Sisko grinned, too. "Yes, it is."

The smile disappeared and Sisko saw there was genuine worry in the younger man's eyes. "I'm sorry," he said.

Sisko didn't understand. What had Bashir done to be sorry for? "For what?"

"I gave up on you." Sisko could see Bashir's eyelids trying to close again. But they didn't and he continued, "In the gas . . . ," he breathed. "I tried to hold my breath . . . but--" He broke off then and looked away to the ceiling. His breath came faster, but in uneven spurts.

"You couldn't hold your breath that long, Julian," Sisko said, trying to console him. "No one could."

Bashir's brown eyes, so tired, turned back to him. "I took . . . a deep breath," he said, "of the gas . . . to die."

Thoughts ran through Sisko's mind of what it must have been like in there and shook his head. No one would blame him for giving up, not in there. "Julian," he began, but he didn't quite know what else to say. "It's alright," was all he could think of. "Don't be sorry."

Bashir was losing the battle with his eyelids. He nodded weakly. "I had a dream," he said, "that Kira was . . . coming to save me." He blinked, trying to stay awake.

"She did," Sisko told him and watched him fall asleep again.

* * *

Bashir awoke, and this time, there was no light at all and no pain. He could turn his head and even move his shoulder. He lifted his hands. The left was identical to the right, unbroken. He did not even feel hungry. He felt fine. For the first time in weeks he was warm and felt at peace. He was safe.

"Jules!" his mother exclaimed as she entered the room. "You're awake. Your father and I were so worried." She came to his bed and hugged him. Her touch was soft, not painful. She kissed his forehead and pulled back to sit beside his legs at the foot of the bed.

Julian looked around the room, but did not see his father. "Where's Dad?" he asked.

"In prison," his mother answered. She seemed untroubled by that fact.

"They didn't let him out,?" Bashir complained. "Even for this?"

"It's really not important, Jules," she told him. "You're well, and we have you back again."

Julian looked at her. It was an odd thing to say, and a strange choice of words. She smiled at him and her smile sent a wave of dread though his body. It was an evil smile. She blinked and when her eyes opened they were black, no iris, no pupil. She laughed. When she spoke, her voice was no longer that of his mother. It was Whaley and it was Heiler at the same time. "And we won't make the same mistakes this time."

She reached her hand toward him, to touch his chest. A small strand of her fluid self, like a short, thick needle, protruded from her opened palm. Bashir was frozen to the bed. He couldn't move or call for help. He couldn't even scream. Her hand touched him, stabbed through his skin.

Julian gasped and his eyes flew open. The room was dark and quiet, but he couldn't turn his head, and his shoulder wouldn't move. He felt soreness and fatigue. And his stomach was empty. A long tube ran from his left arm to a unit on the wall. His mother was beside him, sitting in the chair where he thought he'd seen Sisko. She was sleeping, and he was afraid to wake her. He barely blinked the rest of the night.

* * *

Kira left the conference room and blew out a breath. She hadn't had to deal with the temporal investigators last time. This time, she had faced a roomful of them. They'd already been through nearly everyone else who had been on the planet. Though she had really spent less time than any of them on the surface, with the exception of Sisko and his short visit, she was the highest ranking officer who'd gone down. So they spent the greatest amount of time grilling her on everything that she had done and seen. Who had she talked to? What did she say? Did she think that she, in any way, changed the timeline?

They hadn't liked her story about the barracks. She hadn't liked it either, but she told them the truth. And the truth was that, while she didn't think her actions altered the timeline, she couldn't be sure. Maybe the block elder was angered by her visit and punished one of the others. Maybe he hadn't the first time around. She didn't know. Still, she wasn't sorry. She would have done the same again if it meant saving Bashir.

Besides, she reminded them, if anyone had changed the timeline it was the changeling herself. She had killed at least one man that probably wasn't meant to die in the original timeline. In her capacity as an SS officer in a concentration camp, she might have killed more. They wouldn't know for sure until Bashir had his debriefing. Kira was looking forward to that even less than she had her own. While she was, admittedly, curious about his seven and a half weeks off the ship, she knew it would be difficult at best for the doctor to recount those weeks to a group of strangers. Bureaucrats, no less.

He was sitting up when she entered his room. He smiled as his mother excused herself. "I don't mean to interrupt," Kira told her. "I can come another time."

"No, no," Amsha said, touching her shoulder, "I need a break."

"She's hungry," Bashir said, "but she doesn't want to admit it in front of me." His voice was soft, but getting stronger. Two days of lying in bed had done a lot for him.

"They still won't let him eat real food," Amsha explained. "I think it must be terrible."

"It might be more terrible," he argued, "if after all those weeks starving, I died because I ate something." He sighed. "But you're right. It is terrible. So eat for both of us, and tell me all about it when you get back."

Kira couldn't help but smile at him. How could he make jokes, after all that? Amsha squeezed her arm and pushed her gently into the room. Kira just watched him for a moment, standing at the foot of his bed. He was still thin, but the tube that led into his arm was feeding him nutrients at a level his body could withstand. He wasn't bruised anymore. They had taken care of that. But he still leaned his head back on pillows, and his left arm was still restrained against the bed. A display over his head monitored his heartbeat.

"Please sit down," he told her finally. "It makes me tired watching you stand."

Kira obeyed, though she really didn't mind standing. She'd just spent six hours with the bureaucrats, sitting when she wanted to get up and, at the very least, pace the room. "How are you, Julian?"

"Better than I look, I hope," he answered. He was still smiling, but he looked sad. "At least two more surgeries." He glanced down at his hand. It was still twisted and ugly, though it had regained more of its natural coloring. "It's knit together already," he explained. "They're going to try something new. Osteogenic replacements. All new bones, patterned after my other hand, so they'll match. Did you kill her?"

The question was so blunt; it took Kira by surprise. "Yes," she answered plainly.

"Are you sure?" he asked, fear growing in his eyes. "I mean, because I keep thinking . . . or--or dreaming that--"

"She's dead, Julian," Kira promised him. She lifted her hand. "Hold out your hand."

She could tell he was afraid, but slowly, his right hand lifted from the bed, palm up. Kira held a small vial and she poured the contents of it into his hand. "That's all that's left of her."

Bashir stared at the gray-black powder in his hand as if he was waiting for it to change and move. His hand shook. She had scooped up a handful of the powder just before she transported. Once the ship was docked, she had dumped it from her pocket into the little vial. Now she helped him dump it back. "It's for you," she said, putting the vial in his hand, "to do with as you please. If you want to destroy it, there's a phaser waiting for you as soon as they let you out of here."

He held the vial up and gazed into it. But she could see that he was seeing more than the powder. He drew in a shaky breath. "I can't tell my mother this," he said, speaking softly, "but sometimes, I don't know what is real. I keep thinking this is the dream, and when I'm awake is when I'm asleep. I'm back there. And she's back there. Or I dream it and I wake up and see her here where you're sitting. And she leaned toward me and--" He couldn't finish. His mouth just wouldn't make the words come out.

"That's not really awake," Kira told him. She took the vial back and placed it on a table, and then she took his hand. "This is real, Julian. It's over. I promise."

He shook his head. "But you can't," he said. "They can be anything, Nerys, anywhere. They can be the wall or the bed. Or you. Or me. You can't promise anything."

Kira didn't know what to say. He was right. It was a terrifying thought. She had been having thoughts like that since Ambassador Krajensky turned out to be a changeling. And then when the Dominion had invaded, she had had nightmares. She still did sometimes. But she could always tell the dreams from something real. For him, the nightmare had been real.

She knew what it was like, to a certain extent. She had fought most of her life to rid her planet of Cardassians. And when it finally happened, and they were gone, that felt more like a dream to her than reality. Life was different, too easy maybe, without the constant threat, the constant fear. Which was more real?

He surprised her again. "I lied, Kira," he said.

She shook her head. She didn't know what he was talking about. _Lied about what? _

"On the ship," he explained, "when I had to go back. I lied about why."

She still didn't understand. "You mean they wouldn't have killed those other people?"

This time he shook his head. He winced a little when he did. "They would have killed them. I didn't lie about that. But I wasn't so concerned about the timeline as I let on. I don't think I cared about the timeline at all. I was more concerned about Max and Leo and maybe Vláďa, but I hadn't seen him for so long."

Kira thought for a moment before answering. Would she have cared, in his situation, or would the people have meant more to her? She knew they would. She had made a similar decision about Gaia, offering to give her life to protect the lives of the _Defiant_'s descendants. But for Bashir, it had been even more personal. "They were your friends," Kira stated. "They would have killed them first."

"Can you find them for me, Kira," he asked, his eyes filling with urgency. "I need to know."

Bashir was still holding her hand, but he held it tighter now. "I'll try," she promised. "What were their names?"

"Max Zeidl," he told her. She found a PADD and handed it to him. But he didn't write it. "I don't know Leo's last name. I just know that he was Max's brother-in-law, his wife's brother. And I don't know how to spell Zeidl. I haven't got a clue about Vláďa." He laid the PADD down.

"V-l-a, with an accent mark, d, with a háček, a."

Bashir was startled by the interruption. Kira had been too, but she recognized the doctor's voice and accent.

"It's Czech, yes?" the doctor asked, stepping farther into the room.

"Yes," Bashir answered. "Can you write it?" He held the PADD to her. His hand still shook. Kira wasn't sure if it was fear or weakness. She remembered what he had said. They could be anyone.

"Of course." She took the PADD. "What was his last name?"

"Ščerbak," Bashir said the name slowly. Kira didn't blame him. It sounded difficult.

"Definitely Czech," the doctor said brightly. "Any others?" Bashir repeated Max's name, which she wrote down. She handed the PADD back to him, but he handed it to Kira. "Major," the doctor continued, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave. We have a surgery to prepare for."

Kira stood quickly, but Bashir stopped her from going. "Thank you," he said. His face was so serious. "You're my hero now."

"You should talk to Jordan," she told him. "He found you the first time."

"I'd like to."

Kira gave him another smile, though she felt worse now than when she had come in. He was right. There was no certain way to tell if someone was a changeling. The doctor could be one. And she was about to leave him alone with her. _Don't be ridiculous_, she told herself. _She hasn't hurt him yet_. She excused herself and took the list of names with her.

* * *

Three days later, it was Bashir's turn in the conference room. He'd only been walking since the day before, but he insisted on walking to the debriefing himself. Captain Sisko was there, still in dress uniform. He helped Bashir to straighten his. It was a little too big. Bashir stared at himself in the mirror. He almost did not recognize himself.

"It was a nice service," the captain was saying. "I'm sorry you couldn't be there."

Bashir shook his head. "I saw her kill people," he said, "beat them to death in front of me. But I didn't know about the others. She only said she killed you. I should have caught it. I knew there was something wrong with the blood."

"Julian," Sisko said, sounding a bit frustrated. "It wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault. Do you remember when the Klingons attacked the station? Martok stood right in front of me and cut his hand open. He bled right there on my desk. But he wasn't Martok. I couldn't tell. And you, you walked around for a month performing surgery and we couldn't tell it wasn't you." He softened his voice again. "She fooled all of us, Julian."

Julian knew he was right. He was just so used to blaming himself. But he remembered things she had said, about how all the crew was supposed to go to Auschwitz. They would have all been killed. But he had delayed her and Sisko had destroyed the ship. Fourteen crewmembers had died. It was unfortunate, but it was better than all of them dying. "How did Salerno die?" he asked. He had read the report naming the survivors and the report of the funeral that took place just an hour ago. His name had been on both lists.

Sisko sighed. "She killed him that last night. He was looking for you in the main camp, near Block 11. Kira found his body on the other side of the wall. He'd been stabbed. And it looked like some animal had torn his face."

"Lion," Bashir whispered, remembering. He sat down on the edge of the biobed. "I was hanging there. I thought I was hallucinating. I did that a lot. I saw a lion dragging a uniform. It became an elephant. I thought it was a dream."

"Hanging?" Sisko asked.

"Not by my neck," Julian assured him. "By my wrists. Not something I'd recommend."

Sisko apparently wanted to change the subject. "You hallucinated a lot? Always animals?"

Bashir chuckled and shook his head. "No, usually it was you, or the Chief, even Garak. You helped me get through . . . things. Usually when I didn't want to get through things. You made me set my arm the first time. And O'Brien, he told me it didn't hurt as much the second time. He was lying."

Sisko laughed, too. "Glad we could help." He took a deep breath again. "Julian, I've got to get back to the station. I'm taking most of the remaining crew with me."

Julian turned to him sharply, feeling a panic rise up in him. They were leaving him. _No_, he argued with himself, _just leaving before you_. "When?" he asked, trying to calm himself.

Sisko shrugged. "Now," he said. "But Major Kira will be staying. The _Defiant_'s not ready to leave yet either. She'll stay and bring you and the replacement crew back with the ship. A few of the others volunteered to stay as well. They want to see you. They helped to save you."

Julian nodded. The hospital had rules about how many visitors a patient could have at one time. Only his parents and the senior staff had been to visit him so far.

"Kira's already there," Sisko continued. "You may want someone in there with you. Someone you know."

Bashir nodded, but he couldn't really think. He was finally becoming a Muselman, he thought. _A little late now_, he chided.

Sisko shook him out of it. "Oh, I have something for you." He held his fist out, palm down.

Bashir put his own hand out, and Sisko dropped something in it. It had a familiar feel to it, a weight that wasn't heavy, but meant something. A communicator badge. Brand new. It was such a small thing, but he hadn't worn one for almost two months. It felt right to have one in his hand again. He remembered the hope he'd had in his last one, there in the train, if only the _Defiant_ had answered. "Is that how you found me?" Julian asked. "My comm badge?"

Sisko nodded. "The Nazis were trying to repair it. We traced it back to Bialystok and from there to Treblinka and Auschwitz. We weren't sure which. We had to search both of them."

Bashir buffed the badge on the sleeve of his uniform and then held it up to the light. It was so shiny. He saw a reflection of his own eye as he looked at it. It was real. It had to be.

The door opened and Dax entered. "It's time," she said. O'Brien was behind her. Worf stayed out in the corridor. "I'm sorry we can't stay, Julian."

Bashir knew they had to go. The Dominion was still out there. "I'll be there soon," he told her, putting on a smile he didn't really feel. If it was time for them to go, it was also time for him. "You won't even have time to miss me."

"Who said anything about missing you?" O'Brien quipped. "Don't let them go too hard on you, Julian."

"Can't be as bad as my last interrogation," Julian joked back. It was easier that way.

"It's not an interrogation," Sisko contended, missing the humor entirely. "It's a debriefing. And you're going to be late for it."

He helped Bashir stand up and held onto his arm until the dizziness left him. Dax gave him a hug and O'Brien shook his hand. "I've told my father to expect you," Sisko told him. "New Orleans. Don't forget." He walked Bashir to the door.

Sisko had already told him about the restaurant. He was supposed to go with Kira. The captain had even cleared a special menu with Julian's nutritionist. "How could I forget?" Julian asked him. He couldn't wait. The hospital was keeping him on a rather bland diet. It would be good to have something substantial, even if he couldn't have very much of it.

A nurse was waiting in the hall, and she walked with him the rest of the way. Sisko and the others had to go the opposite direction. As soon as they parted ways, Julian felt alone again, and no matter what he had told them about the debriefing, it scared him nearly as much as the interrogation had. Though this time he knew they wouldn't rip out his fingernails. They would just make him remember it all. And there was some of it that he prayed to forget.

The interrogation--_debriefing_, he reminded himself--had been set up right in the hospital in deference to him. The nurse went inside the conference room with him. The whole medical staff had been very protective of him from the beginning. After reviewing his own chart, he could understand that. He didn't mind. He liked protective, though he knew he couldn't trust it.

The room seemed to be full of people, though Bashir rationalized that it was only his imagination. There were four people present at the main table. They would be questioning him. One wore a uniform, an admiral. Two others wore drab suits, temporal investigators. The fourth was a Betazoid, probably a counselor, someone to guard his emotional state. But she was also someone who could pull out memories, things he wanted to forget.

Kira was already there, sitting in a chair near the back wall. She nodded and smiled when he saw her. He felt better knowing she was there, but not much better. He was afraid they would ask him too many questions, questions that didn't involve the timeline. If even one of them was a changeling, then they would all know. They would know everything she did to him.

The admiral stood. "Doctor," he said, bowing slightly, "please have a seat."

Julian looked at the chair in the center of the room. It was no different from all of the other chairs, padded with red upholstery. But it had arms, and Julian stood for a few moments more seeing a different chair and his own blood spilled on the arms, turning them red. He closed his eyes. _It's just a chair_, he told himself. _Just a chair. _He felt dizzy and had to sit.

"Please understand, Doctor," the Betazoid said. "We're not here to prosecute you. Just to assess any possible changes to the timeline. We'll make it as brief as possible. We don't want you to feel uncomfortable."

They all introduced themselves, but Julian was only half listening. He could have sworn he heard a murmuring in Polish. He held his left hand, still gnarled and crooked, in his lap. The room felt hot to him, but he was starting to shiver.

"You spent nearly two months on the surface," one of the investigators began, checking his notes. Bashir couldn't remember his name. "It would be difficult to recount every action undertaken in such a long time, so it would probably be easiest if you could start by telling us of any significant events that might have changed the timeline." __

Significant events? Bashir thought. Szymon's death was significant. And Henri's. They all were. But the man had spoken about the whole affair as if it was so sanitary, packaged and easily manageable if they just used all the right words. "Everything," Julian told him. "Everything was 'significant.' And everything might have changed the timeline. I was there. I took up a space that would have been filled by someone else. So maybe someone was saved because they weren't in my spot. Or maybe someone died because of it. The tiny rations that I ate would have fed a different man. The space I took on the bunk would have given another man a place to sleep. The men she killed might not have died. Not one of them was insignificant."

The investigators looked at each other and then at the Betazoid. This was not going as smoothly as they would have liked. Bashir didn't care. He wanted to be done, to go along with them so that he could leave, but that word had hit him wrong. It had felt like a dishonor to the dead to talk about them so coldly. _Significant events. _

"Doctor," the admiral asked. "What happened to your hand?"

Julian's head snapped up. What had that to do with the timeline? "A hammer," he answered sharply.

"During work?" The admiral was asking delicately, but he didn't seem to understand the reaction it provoked in Bashir.

"Work?" he repeated. Again with those words. It wasn't work. It wasn't a day in an office and then home for dinner. It was slavery. They were two very different things. "No, not at work."

"When?"

Why was he asking that? Bashir felt the air go out of the room. "When they were questioning me."

"What did they ask you?" the admiral continued. "And how did you answer?"

Now Bashir understood. Had his words changed time? "I lied," Bashir tried to reassure him. "I couldn't tell them about the future. They'd think I was insane."

"They tortured you," the admiral continued. "Wouldn't it have been better if they thought you insane?"

"Do you want me to have told them the truth?" Julian asked in return. "They killed the insane. And they killed spies. I couldn't be either one. No matter what she did to me." The Betazoid was looking uncomfortable and Bashir realized she must be receiving a lot of emotions from him, thoughts too, memories she didn't really want any more than he did.

"_She_ did to you?" It appeared the admiral had taken over the questioning altogether. "I assume you mean the changeling. How did you know it was the changeling?"

"She always let me know," Bashir told him, "when she wanted me to. She would change her eyes or her face."

"You said she killed men. Why did she kill them?"

"She didn't need a reason," Julian explained, losing his patience. He'd had little to start with. "She didn't need a reason. Not when they were Jews."

"Who did she kill? Can you name them or the circumstances of their deaths?"

Bashir shook his head. His chest was hurting, but he wasn't sure if it was panic or remembered pain. "Only four of them," he answered, but his voice was hardly working now. They might not have heard.

"We know about Heiler. What were the others' names?"

"One was . . . Henri," Julian said. His breath was coming in quickly in short gasps, but he felt he wasn't getting enough air. "Henri Bresalier. He had a sister in Missouri. He was going to live with her after the war. He wanted English lessons. I wanted off the floor."

"Why was he killed?"

"Because he was my friend," Julian breathed. "Because we killed forty-six of her people on that ship. She beat him nearly to death in front of me. He was selected in the hospital."

The Betazoid drew her eyebrows together. "Selected?" __

At least she's not reading my mind, Julian thought. "For death. He couldn't work, so he was killed."

"You worked in the hospital." The other investigator this time.

Bashir shook his head. "She wouldn't have let me. My first kommando was building a crematorium. Number II. My second built barracks."

The admiral tried to direct the conversation back around to the dead. "You said there were four. Heiler and Bresalier. Who were the other two?"

Bashir stopped breathing. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come.

The admiral didn't let that interrupt him. "What were their names?"

Bashir was shaking his head. "I don't know," he said and finally drew in a breath. "He was. . . ."

"He was what? Who? Did she beat him, too?" The room began to spin. "What about the fourth man? Did you know his name?" __

Yes, Bashir said, but only in his mind. How could he forget Piotr? He would never forget, as long as he lived. He nodded and a tear fell down his face. "She didn't," he whispered, "beat the other man."

They were all silent now, finally sensing his discomfort. But he'd gone too far to stop. It was something he could no longer control. He had tried to push the memories away, but they refused to stay buried. They rushed back at him, and he could see it all again. He felt the cold air, the barrel of the gun at his temple. _"Oh, it's not that easy, _Herr Engländer_," he heard Heiler say. "I will shoot one of them."_

He tried to find a way out, an answer beyond the simple yes or no she gave him. He couldn't do it. He couldn't beat that man. But he knew she would shoot. He was frozen, lost in panic. And he couldn't decide. 

"I was ready to die," he told them. His face was wet with tears now, tears he hadn't been able to shed for Piotr before, or the nameless man waiting to be flogged. "I," he stuttered, "I was . . . flogged. I knew . . . but she didn't shoot _me_." __

The gun fired, blocking all other sound from his ears. He could see Piotr fall, his blood spilling onto the snow and splattering his neighbors in the line. Heiler raised the gun again before Bashir could even rise. He took the whip in his shaking hand. 

"I . . . beat him." He couldn't breathe. "I kept . . . waiting for them to say stop, that it was enough. I didn't want to," he pleaded with them. "But she would have killed them." He was nearly sobbing, hardly coherent. "She would have shot them all. Because of me." He doubled over, dropping his face into his hands.

"That's enough," Kira said, but he didn't hear her. He was lost to himself. "Leave him alone."

"Major," the admiral protested weakly. His voice nearly cracked.

Kira didn't let him finish. "He couldn't help it. Anything he did there. He had no power, no choices!" She was indignant. "Get out and leave him alone!"

She touched him. He hadn't even realized she had left her seat. She put her arm around him. Her other hand touched his face, lifted his head. "It wasn't your fault, Julian. You didn't beat that man. She did."

He held out his hand as if to show her the truth. "But it was my hand. I felt it when it hit him. I heard him scream. He passed out and they made me start over from _eins_. We were at _zwanzig,_ and he had to start over at _eins_! He was dead, Kira, before he reached twenty again. I don't even know what he did."

"But it wasn't you, Julian," she insisted, taking both of his hands in hers. "She used your hand because she knew it would hurt you more than anything she could do to your body."

The others must have obeyed her and left. Three hours later, Kira and he left, too. That night, Kira had nightmares. She dreamt of everything he told her in those three hours.

Kira found him in the garden. The hospital really did have a beautiful garden. Actually, she had to admit it was all the way around a beautiful planet, just as Sisko had said. Paradise. She could hardly imagine it as the same place she had seen before. The sky was a gorgeous blue and the temperature--it was spring there--was neither too hot nor too cold. Flowers of every color imaginable were blooming in the garden around Starfleet Medical. Bashir was sitting on a bench there all alone.

"Julian," she said quietly, not wanting to startle him. He was jumpy these days. "It's almost time." Sisko's father was expecting them for dinner. The whole crew. Jordan was especially looking forward to it. He had stopped her three times on the _Defiant_ just that afternoon, asking if Bashir would be going. They'd all put a lot into saving him. They wanted to see for themselves that he was alright. Kira wasn't one hundred percent convinced that he was alright. But then, neither was she. She'd lived with things, dealt with things, remembered things that needed forgetting. And she was still able to carry out her duties. She knew Bashir would be the same doctor he always was. The best, though she still didn't think she'd ever tell him that.

"Did you find them, Kira?" he asked, still gazing at the flowers. His back was to her. "Anything at all?"

Kira shook her head, though she knew he couldn't see. "No, but Thomas is helping to look. We'll be late, Julian. We have a reservation. Just think, real food."

He lifted a hand to her without turning around. It was his left hand. His fingers were long and straight. The back of his hand was smooth. He turned his head and smiled. "I can't feel it yet. It will take a couple of days."

"Well, you only need one to throw." Kira had a bag over her shoulder. The uniform she'd replicated was inside of it. The entire away team--except for Dax and Salamon--had volunteered to return with the _Defiant_. And they'd all be carrying bags to dinner. Joe Sisko had also offered to host their bonfire.

He still didn't rise from the bench. "I've figured it out," he told her. His smile was gone. "Here or there. It makes no difference. They could take me on the station or steal me from my sleep on Meezan IV. The _Defiant_, Earth. Nothing is safe anymore."

"So what will you do?" Kira asked him.

"Just keep breathing, I guess." He stood and his smile returned. "And eat real food. Come on, we don't want to be late!"

* * *

Two days later she was pacing the deck of the _Defiant_'s bridge. She knew she shouldn't. It might make the new crew nervous. Thomas, from the helm, turned around to look at her. Kira motioned her to the back of the room. "Run a scan of the planet's surface," she told her quietly. "See if you can find him."

"Should be easier this time," Thomas quipped.

"Let's hope so. We're supposed to be leaving in less than an hour."

Thomas ran the scan, and the results came back quickly, thanks to the newly repaired sensors. Thomas seemed to freeze for a moment, and then the set of her shoulders softened. "He's gone back, Major," she reported gently.

"What?" Kira stepped up beside her to look at the readout. Auschwitz. She thought for a moment. Like returning to Gallitep. She had done that once. It had looked so different, so empty, so silent, and yet so full of presence. She sighed. "I think we'll be a little late." She raised her voice. "You have the bridge, Mr. Jordan."

The transporter put her down only a few meters from him, but he barely stirred to note her presence. He was standing in a doorway. She was in the corridor behind him, almost around the corner. "Julian," she whispered, not wanting to startle him.

"This was my cell," he answered softly. "My haven." __

Haven? Kira wondered at his choice of terms. She stepped closer, looking around his shoulder. It was dark room, not even three meters square if she had to guess. There was no light source, not even a window. The door was solid and thick.

"No one touched me when I was in there," he went on. "Except the doctor, but that doesn't count."

Kira touched his arm. "Julian, we need to go back."

He didn't look at her. He just sighed. "How could this happen?" he asked.

Kira didn't know what to say in reply. She had a few ideas on why the changeling had sent him to this place, but the torture and torment were something else. Obsession, dementia perhaps.

"Not just me," he added, seeming to know what she was thinking, "but to all of them. There were so many, Kira. What is in us, so black and vile, to make us do things like this? I don't think I'll ever understand."

His words had torn something within her. "I understood once," she whispered, dropping her eyes to the floor. She thought maybe she saw a faint stain of long-eroded blood there. "I've been trying to forget."

He raised his left hand to run it along the frame of the door. "I couldn't step inside," he told her. "I was afraid the door would close behind me." He sighed again. "I can't leave yet, Major. I have to say goodbye."

Kira didn't ask to whom. She imagined she knew. His friends, and all the others that he met or didn't meet. He was like that. She was, too. He turned slowly, putting his back to the cell. "Then I guess we'll be a little late," Kira said, and she took his hand. "You're not alone this time."

**Epilogue**

Julian Bashir placed his communicator carefully on the table beside his bed. Then he picked it up and rubbed it against his sleeve until it shined. He set it back down again and changed into his night clothes. It had been a long day of answering the same question over and over. "How are you?" Still he couldn't say they didn't care. It felt good to have so many people care about how he was. But it was also tiresome to answer them, especially when they didn't really want to know. Some of them did, like Captain Sisko or O'Brien, but Julian wanted to spare them the details. Kira knew them all. Jordan had had a glimpse of them during his day there. He might tell O'Brien someday. O'Brien had memories, too.

But for now, nightmares and all, he was ready to go to sleep. In his own bed, the bed he'd left only three and a half weeks before. _Temporal mechanics_.

He had only slept for five hours though before he was awakened by the chime on his door. At first he couldn't move to answer it. His heart was pounding too hard. He had a phaser though, and he picked it up. He was better able to move then, and he made it to the door. He keyed it open and lowered the phaser.

"Thought you might want a midnight snack," Captain Sisko said. He was smiling broadly and carrying a large casserole dish. "So I made you some beets. I know how you love them." He stepped into the room without being invited.

But Julian didn't feel threatened. He sensed something more was to happen. "I'm not _that_ hungry, sir."

"Well, maybe you'll like hasperat," Kira suggested poking her head around the door frame. "Welcome home."

"Fruits, Julian." Dax was next. "They're not only delicious, but they contain vitamins, to help you grow. You're much too thin."

Bashir had run out of things to say. Each time one of them stepped into the room, someone else stepped into the door frame. O'Brien had a plate of cookies. Chocolate chip. Garak had something Cardassian. Odo even managed a tray of root beer. "Bubbles," he said.

Jake, of course, had brought Idanian spice pudding. Jordan had a plate of matzoth. "Something Jewish," he explained, "I think." His hair was starting to grow in again, like Julian's fingernails. Novak had brought something German, a dark Bavarian bread.

Julian sat down on the couch and watched them stream in and laughed. It felt good to laugh again. By the time they were all in, there was barely room for them to sit on the floor and every table he had was covered with plates and bowls and glasses.

Sisko stood to make a toast. "As of today, according to Nurse Jabara . . . , " he waited for a nod from her, ". . . you're free to eat whatever you want, so we thought we'd bring you a treat or two. Of course, you have to stick with small portions, so we had to come and help you eat all this food." He raised his glass and became serious. "To the fallen!"

They stayed for several hours, though Odo had to excuse himself to rest. Nurse Jabara kept a close eye on him despite her earlier affirmation, but she let him sample everything. It was wonderful. And at that moment, he would not have cared if it was only a dream. It was a good dream.

Thomas was the last one to leave. She hung back when the others said their good-byes. "I didn't bring any food," she said, seeming to apologize. Her hands were behind her back. "But I did bring you something." She pulled one of her arms from behind her and produced a book. A real book, with paper and a leather cover. "I replicated it in book form. It's the English translation," she explained. "I'm glad one of ours survived." She kissed him on the cheek and then disappeared down the corridor.

Julian looked at the cover of the book. "_To the Fallen_," he read aloud, "by Max Zeidl." 

THE END

See the next chapter (Bibliography and Appendix) for more information.

copyright 1998 Gabrielle Lawson


	18. Bibliography & Appendix (translations)

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**OŚWIĘCIM**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Bibliography**

_Historical Atlas of the Holocaust_. (Macmillan Publishing: New York) 1996.

_Auschwitz 1940-1945: Guidebook Through the Museum_. (Oświęcim: Państowowe Muzum w Oświęcimiu) 1993.  
Czech, Danuta. _Auschwitz Chronicle_. (H. Holt: New York) 1990.

Hss, Rudolf. _Death Dealer: The Memoirs of the SS Kommandant at Auschwitz_. (New York: De Capo Press) 1996.

Levi, Primo. _Survival in Auschwitz. _(New York: Collier Books) 1961.

Jackson, Livia E. Bitton. _Elli: coming of Age in the Holocaust. _(Times Books: New York) 1980.

Page, David W., M.D. _Body Trauma: a writer's guide to wounds and injuries_. (Cincinnati: Writer's Digest Books) 1996.

Sofsky, Wolfgang. _The Order of Terror: The Concentration Camp_. (Princeton: Princeton University Press) 1993.

Stevens, Serita Deborah with Anne Klarner._ Deadly Doses: a writer's guide to poisons_. (Cincinnati: Writer's Digest Books) 1990.

Wells, Leon W., _The Janowska Road_. (Macmillan) 1963. Qtd. in Friedlander, Albert H., ed. _Out of the Whirlwind: A Reader of Holocaust Literature_. (New York: Schocken Books) 1968. pp. 227-258.

**Appendix**

**Chapter Four**

We have a dead body here. Help me to put him out!  
German: _Wir haben hier noch einen Toten! Helfen Sie mir, ihn herauszutragen! _

He doesn't bother me!  
German: _Der kann mir gestohlen bleiben! _

We're heading south.  
Polish: _Jedziemy na_ _południe_.

Food.  
Polish: _Jedzenia_.

Thank you.  
Czech: _Děkuji_.

Where are we?  
Czech: _Kde jsme? _

I heard one of the prisoners. Auschwitz  
Polish: German: _Auschwitz._

Why are you limping?  
German: _Warum humpelst du? _

Why are you limping?  
Polish: _Dlaczego kulejesz? _

I lost my right foot in an accident two years ago.  
Polish: _Straciłem prawą stopę w wypadku dwa lata temu_.

How old are you?  
German: _Wie alt bist du? _

I don't understand German.  
Czech: _Nerozumim německy._

How old are you?  
Polish: _Ile masz lat? _

Eighteen.  
Czech: _Osmnáct_.

You! You are an Englishman.  
German: _Du!_ _Du bist Englnder_.

Come with me!  
German: _Komm mit mir! _

No! No! Stay!  
Czech: _Ne!_ _Ne! Zůstajn! _

You. Come!  
German: _Du. Komm! _

**Chapter Five**

Why does he still have his hair!  
German: _Warum hat der immer noch seine Haare! _

He is an English spy! Let him keep his hair. And the lice!  
German: _Er ist ein englischer Spion!_ _Laß' ihn seine Haare behalten--und seine Läuse auch! _

Where's Andrzej?  
Czech: _Kde je Andrzej? _

You're Czech?  
Czech: _Ty jsi Čech? _

Yeah.  
Czech: _Jo_.

My name is Max. I lived in Teplice before the war.  
Czech: _Jmenuji se Max. Před válkou jsem žil v Teplicích_.

From Prague. And this is...  
Czech: _Z Prahy. A tady je . . . _

Englishman?  
Czech: _Angličan? _

My cousin and I met him on the train. He was wearing some strange clothes, but Andrzej thinks he's a doctor.  
Czech: _Můj bratranec a já jsme ho potkali ve vlaku. Měl na sobě nějaké divné oblečení, ale Andrzej si myslí že je doktor. _

He doesn't speak Czech?  
Czech: _On nemluví česky? _

No.  
Czech: _Ne. _

Do you speak German?  
German: _Sprechen Sie deutsch? _

Do you speak French?  
French: _Parlez-vous français? _

No.  
German: _Nein. _

Where are our families?  
German: _Wo sind unsere Familien? _

Didn't you see the smoke? That's where your family is, and that is where you will end up as well.  
German: _Hast du den Rauch nicht gesehen?_ _Da ist deine familie und da wirst du auch bald landen! _

What did he mean? In the smoke? What did he mean by that?  
German: _Was meint er bloss? Rauch? Was meint er damit? _

What did he say?  
Czech: _Co r(kal? _

He said they were in the smoke? How is that possible? How can they be in the smoke?  
Czech: _Říkal, že všichni skončíme v kouří_. _Jak je to možné? Jak mužou být v kouří?_

Does anyone else have anything to say?  
German: _Hat noch jemand irgendetwas zu sagen? _

How can they be in the smoke? Where is my Sophie and my little Hana? How can they be in the smoke?  
German: _Wie können sie im Rauch sein? Wo sind meine Sophie und meine kleine Hana? Wie können sie im Rauch sein? _

Quiet!  
Czech: _Ticho! _

How can they be in the smoke?  
German: _Wie können sie im Rauch sein? _

Here is the Englishman.  
German: _Hier ist der Engländer_.

Come here!  
German: _Komm her! _

**Chapter Six**

Take off your clothes!  
German: _Zieh Dich aus! _

What is your name?  
German: _Wie heißt du? _

Why are you here? What are you doing in Poland?  
German: _Warum bist du hier? Was machen Sie in Polen? _

I think perhaps you do understand!  
German: _Ich weiß, daß Du das verstehst! _

Are you thirsty? Would you like some water?  
German: _Sind Sie durstig? Möchten Sie etwas Wasser? _

Show us that you understand, and you can have some water.  
German: _Zeigen Sie uns, daß Sie uns verstehen, dann bekommen Sie Wasser. _

You are probably hungry as well, yes? Tell me so. Tell me and you can have this food. How long has it been since you had a proper meal? You are shivering. You must be cold. Would you like your clothes back? You only have to say so and they are yours again.  
German: _Sie Sind wahrscheinlich auch hungrig, nicht wahr? Dann sagen Sie es mir einfach. Sagen Sie es mir und sie können etwas zum Essen haben. Wie lange ist es her, daß Sie eine richtige Mahlzeit hatten? Sie zittern ja. Sie frieren bestimmt. Möchten Sie Ihre Kleider zurück haben? Sie müssen es nur sagen, dann gehören Sie wieder Ihnen. _

Ah! Your legs are tired! It's a very comfortable chair. Go and sit.  
German: _Ah! Ihre Beine werde müde!_ _Das ist ein sehr bequemer Stuhl. Gehen sie hin, setzen Sie sich._

Are you sure you won't join us?  
German: _Sind Sie sicher, daß Sie sich nicht zu uns setzen möchten?_

With whom are you working? Who is your contact outside? What do you hope to gain by this?  
German: _Mit wem arbeitest Du? Wer ist Dein Kontaktmann draußen?_ _Was meinst Du, was Dir das bringt? _

Talk to me and you have nothing to fear from him. Tell me you are hungry, and you can eat. It's that simple.  
Polish:_ Jeśli mi wszystko powiesz, on ci nic złego nie zrobi. Powiedź, że jesteś głodny, i damy Ci jeść. To takie proste_.

Do you know what happens if you don't answer? My colleague is becoming angry. You would be wise to cooperate now rather than later.  
Polish: _Czy wiesz co Ci się stanie jeśli nie odpowiesz?_ _Mój kolega zaczyna być zły. We własnym interesie, zacnij wspołpracować zanim będzie za późno. _

I'll make you understand, you stupid, Jewish bastard!  
German: _Ich werde dafür sorgen, daß Du mich verstehst, Du jüdischer Bastard!_

**Chapter Seven**

Left.  
German: _Links_.

Bring him downstairs.  
German: _Bring ihn nach unten. _

Leave him. You may go.  
German: _Laßt ihn. Ihr könnt gehen. _

Get up!  
German: _Steh' auf! _

**Chapter Eight**

Where is the Englishman?  
German: _Wo ist der Engländer? _

You have a new guest. When he dies, it will be by my hand. Is that clear?  
German: _Du hast einen neuen Gast Wenn er stirbt, dann durch meine Hand. Ist das klar! _

He is to be in my Kommando in the morning. Make sure he finds the way.  
German: _Morgen früh kommt er unter mein Kommando._ _Sieh zu, daß er seinen Weg zu mir findet! _

Why is he so concerned with you?  
German: _Warum sorgt er sich bloß so um Dich? _

When I ask a question, you will answer!  
German: _Wenn ich dich etwas frage, dann antworte gefälligst! _

What is that?  
German: _Was war das? _

Does anyone speak English?  
German: _Gibt es hier jemanden, der Englisch spricht? _

No, he might be SS.  
Polish: _Nie! Pewnie doniesie do SS. _

Ten minutes!  
German: _Zehn Minuten! _

Get to work, you filthy swine!  
German: _An die Arbeit, du dreckiges Schwein! _

**Chapter Nine**

Bring the soup. And be quick about it. Everyone is hungry.  
German: _Bring die Suppe. Und beeil dich. Alle hier haben Hunger. _

Go with him.  
German: _Geh mit ihm. _

Does anyone have a needle and thread?  
German: _Hat hier irgend jemand Nadel und Faden? _

My brother in the next Block, is a tailor. Maybe he has some.  
German: _Mein Bruder im Block nebenan ist Schneider. Vielleicht hat er welche. _

Go, quickly. It's nearly time.  
German: _Geh, schnell._ _Beeil dich, es ist bald Zeit! _

An SS almost saw me.  
German: _Ein SS-Mann hätte mich fast gesehen. _

Do you have it?  
German: _Hast Du es? _

Only the needle.  
German: _Nur die Nadel. _

I must return it before Appell tomorrow.  
German: _Ich muß sie bis morgen vor dem Appell zurück bringen._

We need some thread.  
German: _Wir brauchen etwas Faden. _

Merek, I know you have this.  
Polish:_ Marek, wiem, że masz nitkę. _

You saved it from the patches.  
Polish: _Wziałeś ją z naszywek. _

I saved it for me.  
Polish: _Tak, wziałem. Dla siebie. _

Come on, Merek.  
Polish: _No, dawaj, Marek. _

If he _is_ a doctor, this will be worth more than a piece of thread.  
Polish: _Jeśli on naprawde jest lekarzem, to będzie warte więcej niż kawałek nitki. _

And if he is not, I will have lost it.  
Polish: _A jeśli nie jest, to nie będę miał nitki. _

This is no time for talking, you stupid Jew. Are you afraid of work? Maybe you think you don't have to work. Lazy pig!  
German: _Jetzt ist nicht die Zeit zum Unterhalten, du scheiß Jude! Hast du Angst vor der Arbeit? Vielleicht denkst du, du müßtest nicht arbeiten. Faules Schwein!_

Where is Henri?  
German: _Wo ist Henri? _

And Szymon and Piotr?  
German: _Und Szymon und Piotr? _

Is he dead?  
German: _Ist er tot? _

You haven't eaten?  
German: _Du hast nicht gegessen?_

**Chapter Ten**

What are you doing there?  
German: _Was machen Sie da? _

Go back to your home.  
German: _Geh nach Hause. _

This is Gestapo business. You would be wise to stay out of it.  
German: _Das hier ist Angelegenheit der Gestapo. Du tust gut daran, dich hier herauszuhalten. _

Sorry.  
German: _Es tut mir leid. _

Who is in there?  
German: _Wer ist da drinnen_?

Come on! We have to go this instant!  
Polish: _Chodź! Musimy lecieć w tej chwili!_

Line up in fives! NOW!  
German: _Aufstellen in Fnferreihen! SOFORT! _

You five! Move to the back. Now! The rest move up.  
German: _Ihr Fünf! Ab nach hinten. Sofort! Der Rest schließt nach vorne auf. _

Move up!  
German: _Aufschließen! _

Now.  
German: _Jetzt. _

Not yet. And not you.  
German: _Noch nicht,...Und du nicht_.

Give him the whip.  
German: _Gib ihm die Peitsche. _

**Chapter Eleven**

Clean the infection. I will be back for him in two days.  
German: _Säubere die Wunde. Ich werde in zwei Tagen wieder nach ihm sehen. _

**Chapter Twelve**

I see that you are awake!  
Polish:_ Widzę, że pan się obudził. _

We treated your infection like he told us to. I'm afraid we could only clean your wounds and bandage them  
Polish:_ Wyleczylismy twoją infekcje tak jak on nam powiedział. Obawiam się, że tylko mogliśmy oczyścić pana obrażenia i je obandarzować. _

Was he speaking English?  
Polish: _Czy on mowił po Angielsku?_

Maybe he was speaking Dutch.  
Polish: _Moze on mowił po Holendersku. _

No, not in Dutch. He's an Englishman. Does anyone here speak English?  
Polish: _Nie, nie po Holendersku. On jest Anglikiem. Czy ktoś tu mówi po Angielsku? _

Bring him something to eat.  
Polish: _Przynieś mu coś do jedzenia. _

Look what he's doing.  
Polish: _Zobaczcie, co on robi. _

He's a doctor, Or a nurse.  
Polish: _On jest lekarzem, albo pielęgniarem. _

Help him. He's a doctor, but he only has one hand. And he doesn't speak Polish.  
Polish: _Pomórz mu. On jest lekarzem, ale ma tylko jedną rąkę. I nie mówi po Polsku. _

You're were right. He's not dead.  
German: _Du hattest recht. Er ist nicht tot. _

Ask him where he has been.  
German: _Frag ihn wo er gewesen ist. _

In the morning. It's late. Go to sleep.  
German: _Morgen. Es ist spät. Geh schlafen. _

**Chapter Fourteen**

Quickly! To the Appellplatz!  
German: _Los, los, zum Appellplatz! _

Clumsy Jew pig. Pick it up! Pick it up now!  
German: _Ungeschicktes Judenschwein! Heb es auf! Heb es sofort auf! _

That is my Jew. If he needs beating, I will do it.  
German: _Das ist meine Jude. Wenn irgendjemand ihn verprügelt, dan ich! _

Get back to work.  
German: _Zurück zur Arbeit! _

This is Leo. He is the brother-in-law.  
German: _Das ist Leo. Er ist der Schwager. _

The others said he was a spy. One of the SS protects him.  
German: _Die anderen sagen, er sei ein Spion. Einer von der SS beschützt ihn. _

He's no spy. If he is a spy, he's a spy for the English. But he's a very bad one. He doesn't even speak German.  
German: _Er ist kein Spion. Wenn er ein Spion ist, er ist ein Spion für die Engländer. Aber er ist ein sehr schlechter--er spricht kein Deutsch. _

I have bread, but Szymon won't eat it.  
German: _Ich habe Brot, aber Szymon will es einfach nicht essen. _

copyright 1998 Gabrielle Lawson

The X-Files Epilogue just for fun! (Hyperlinks and URL's don't seem to work here anymore, so you'll have to go to my Profile page, find my home page and follow the following links: Stories, Oswiecim, X-Files Epilogue. Or try putting this together: gabrielle dot sytes dot net forward-slash trek forward-slash stories forward-slash x-files dot html.) 


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